







(lassiEZ 'lM& 

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By bequest o PfZ 
William Lukens Shoemaker 





SONGS OF TOIL - 

G BY 

CARMEN SYLVA, QUEEN OF RUMANIA 

TRANSLA TED BY 

JOHN ELIOT BOWEN 

With an Introductory Sketch 

SECOND EDITION 



NEW YORK 

FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY 
MDCCCXCII 




Copyright, 1887, by The Independent. 
Copyright, 1888, by John Eliot Bowen. 


»'« J Gift. 

<• c 

■ •'W. L. Shoemaker 
I S '06 







CONTENTS. 


Introductory Sketch 

The Scissors-Grinder’s Song 

©djeeveitf^leiferlieb 

SDletjgerlieb 

The Butcher’s Song 

8immerrrtann§Iieb . 

The Carpenter’s Song . 
Spaptermad^er . 

The Paper-Maker . 

aJUiUerlieb .... 

The Miller’s Song 

33eim giittern . 

Fodder-Time 

SSeitn Smollett . 

Milking-Time 

2tm '$fluge 

The Plowing . 

girt Ulee .... 

In Clover 

Suit. 

July .... 

2)er ©antaim . 

The Sower 
©d)ifferlieb 

The Boatman’s Song . 

Sifter .... 

The Fisherman 
93eim ©ptntten . 

Spinning Song 


PAGE 

5 

37 

38 

40 

41 

42 

43 

46 

47 

48 

49 

52 

53 

56 

57 

58 

59 

60 

61 

62 

63 

64 

65 

6S 

69 

70 

7* 

80 

81 


3 




















CONTENTS 


4 


PAGE 


U^rma^erlicb . 84 

The Clcckmaker’s Song. 85 

Ser ^arbenreiber.88 

The Color-Grinder.89 

SBddcrlieb.92 


The Baker’s Song. 93 

©etlerlieb.96 

The Rope-Maker’s Song. 97 

Sopferlieb.98 

The Potter’s Song. 99 

SJiofaif . .. 

Mosaic.103 

Sctpejterer.104 

The Upholsterer.. 

Sergolber.108 

The Gilder.109 

giinmenrtaler.112 

The Painter.. 

Ser Scmbbrieftrdger.116 

The Country Letter-Carrier.117 

Ser ©aubtrager.. 

The Sand-Carrier.121 

Sic ©djeuerfrau.126 

The Charwoman. 127 

Ser S 3 Idfer ..130 

The Glass-Blower.131 

2 tm SBebftntyl.134 

The Weaver.135 

Siatrtantenfdjleifer ......... 136 

The Diamond-Polisher.137 

Ser ©eigenmadfjer.138 

The Violin-Maker.139 

©teinf^ineiber.142 

The Stone-Cutter.143 


















INTRODUCTORY SKETCH. 


In writing of Carmen Sylva, Queen of Rumania, 
one does not know whether to call her poet-queen or 
queen-poet. Doubtless her royal position has had 
something to do with her fame as poet, and certainly 
her poetry has directed the world’s eye to that far-off 
throne in southern Europe. She would not, then, be 
what she is, we are forced to conclude, were she not 
both poet and queen. Queens have always been in¬ 
teresting in literature, even if posing only as an inspira¬ 
tion. They have almost invariably been “fair women.” 
Pictures and poems arise as we name them—Esther of 
Persia, Dido of Carthage, Cleopatra of Egypt, Mary of 
Scotland. The last is said even to have written poems 
herself; she certainly wrote a celebrated Latin hymn, 
but the poems — presumably not addressed to her cousin 
Elizabeth, else there would be no lack of fervor in them 
— do not find their place in literature. In general, 
royalty has inspired rather than produced literature. 
But with the present age this has changed. Applicable 
to monarchs as to men is the statement that “nowa¬ 
days every one writes books,” and no truer in one case 
than in the other is the wicked end of the saying, “ but 


5 



6 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


only fools publish them.” The Queen of England pub¬ 
lishes her journals; one of her daughters writes articles 
for the magazines; the King of Sweden prints sagas in 
verse; the Crown Prince of Austria publishes tales of 
travel and adventure; and even the Pope of Rome pub¬ 
lishes to the world a collection of poems. But with all 
these the production of what may be kindly called 
literature, is pastime; to the Queen of Rumania, on 
the other hand, her literary work is life. How and 
why this is so may be learned from a brief glance at 
her career. 

Like many of the heroines of fiction, Elizabeth, Prin¬ 
cess of Wied and Queen of Rumania, was born of an 
ancient and honorable family. So far back as 1093, 
says Natalie Freiin von Stackelberg, in her life of 
Carmen Sylva,* the counts of Wied were a mighty 
race of rulers. Their possessions on the right and left 
banks of the Rhine stretched as far as Eifel and the 
Westerwald. Their most ancient residence was the 
castle of Upper-Altwied; afterward for generations the 
family lived in the castle of Lower-Altwied; and finally 
in the early part of the eighteenth century the castle of 
Neuwied was built, and in this the Princess Elizabeth 
was born. The town of Neuwied is situated in one of 
the most beautiful sections of the Rhine country. It is 
a short distance below Coblenz and on the same bank 

* 2Iu§ (Sarrnen ©ytop’ji £ebett. S5on SJlatalie freiin »on 
©tadelberg. 




INTRODUCTORY SKETCH. 


7 


as Ehrenbreitstein. The castle commands a most 
picturesque view of the cities and villages and mountain 
spurs that follow the winding course of the river. 

With the fortunes of the family of Wied we are not 
specially concerned. The counts played their parts in 
the conflicts of the Middle Ages, in the Thirty Years’ 
War, and in the Seven Years’ War. In 1784 the 
countship of Wied was raised by Joseph II. to the 
dignity of a principality, but at the Congress of Vienna 
the semi-independence which the house had enjoyed, 
was taken away and the greater part of its possessions 
was placed under Prussian dominion. 

It is of interest, however, to note that Elizabeth’s 
family has been, to a considerable extent, a family of 
students, scholars, and even writers. The first distin¬ 
guished scholar of the family was Maximilian, brother 
of Prince August and great-uncle of Elizabeth. His 
life was devoted to the study of natural history. During 
the first half of this century he travelled extensively in 
South and North America. His books descriptive of 
his journeys have been of value in their relation to the 
science of natural history, and his collection of speci¬ 
mens of mammalia, birds, fishes, reptiles, etc., has been 
purchased since his death by the American Museum of 
Natural History in Central Park, New York, where it 
is still exhibited under the name of “The Prince Max¬ 
imilian of Wied Collection.” Maximilian’s sister, 
Louise, had special talents in music, painting and poetry. 



8 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


Her “ Songs of the Solitary,” though perhaps over- 
pious, have a poetic quality. Prince Hermann, the 
father of Elizabeth, was a philosopher. The titles of 
his books and pamphlets are profound. For many 
years an invalid, he devoted himself assiduously to study 
and speculation, finding his sole recreation in the his¬ 
torical works cf Mommsen, Hausser and Ranke, and in 
the occasional use of the brush, for which he had a 
natural talent. Elizabeth’s mother, Maria, brought 
from the house of Nassau the qualities of heart that, in 
her child, were to find their complement in the qualities 
of mind bequeathed by the father. Of such stock 
and of such a union was Elizabeth, Princess of Wied, 
born. 

The year of her birth was 1S43, ^ ie month December, 
and the day 29. tier childhood v/as just w r hat would 
be expected from her inheritances, arid the method, 
manner and circumstances of life at Ncuwied and 
Monrepos, the family’s summer-house. Her bringing- 
up was superintended by her mother, acting under the 
advice of the Prince, her husband, and assisted by the 
same governess who had had charge of her own educa¬ 
tion. This governess had a rare fund of fairy tales and 
legends stored away in her memory, which were doubt¬ 
less the first stimulant applied to the young Elizabeth’s 
imaginative powers. She was an original child. And 
yet in many respects she was like all children. She had 
a passion for dolls, which she called her children. 



INTRODUCTORY SKETCH. 


9 


When she first met strangers her invariable question 
was, “ Have you also children?” We learn in the poem 
entitled „^lfcf)er," page —, which is tenderly and pathet¬ 
ically autobiographic, that this question of the child is 
still the question of the Queen. Stories of the little 
princess’s generosity are told by Natalie von Stackel- 
berg, to whom I must acknowledge my indebtedness for 
all anecdotes not otherwise credited. When the merest 
child she was filled with compassion for the poor. One 
day her mother gave her a quantity of new woolen cloth, 
greatly to Elizabeth’s delight, “for now,” she said, 
“I can give all my dresses to the poor.” “But,” said 
the mother, “would it not be better to give the cloth 
to the poor, to whom your white dresses would be of 
little use?” The princess, who was by no means a 
goody-goody child, and had a will of her own, com¬ 
prehended, nevertheless, her mother’s question, and 
with her little brother at once set forth to carry the 
cloth to a poor woman. 

Many of the stories of Elizabeth’s youthful years 
have become household tales, and scarcely need to be 
told again. All who know anything of her childhood 
will remember how she played truant, not by staying 
away from school, but by going to school one day. She 
had always, during the beautiful summer-days at 
Monrepos, had a great desire to attend school with the 
village children. Permission had been denied her until 
one morning she rushed in upon her mother, who was 



SONGS OF TOIL. 


io 


absorbed in household duties, and begged to be allowed 
to go to school with the farm children. Without com¬ 
prehending the question the mother nodded her con¬ 
sent, and away ran the little princess. She arrived at 
the school while the singing lesson was in progress and 
at once took her place beside the other children, greatly 
to the satisfaction of the school-master, who was 
flattered by her presence. He had no mark of reproof 
for her when she raised her voice to such a pitch as to 
drown the voices of all the other children. Not so, 
however, with the child who stood next to her, and who 
thought it unbecoming to sing so loud. This youngster 
clapped her hand over the princess’s mouth by way of 
rebuke, and to show that the other children, if they did 
not have equal voices, had at least equal rights. In the 
meantime the absence of the princess had been noticed 
at the palace, and after a vain search the servants were 
put on the right track and found and carried the child 
home in disgrace. This story ought to end here; for 
we are sorry to learn that the democratic enthusiasm of 
the child was punished by imprisonment for the re¬ 
mainder of the day. 

Elizabeth’s interest in poetry was excited at an ex¬ 
tremely early age. There is no doubt but that she felt 
the influence of the poets with whom, in company with 
her parents, she frequently came in contact. During a 
brief residence in Bonn they were visited almost daily 
by Ernst Moritz Arndt, the poet, who, with the eight- 



I NT ROD UCTOR Y SKE TCH. 


ii 


year-old princess on his knee, would recite his patriotic 
poems till the child’s cheek flushed and her heart beat 
with excitement. Among their other frequent visitors 
were Lessing, Bunsen, Neukomm and others distin¬ 
guished in literature. But not only was she privileged 
to hear poetry; she was compelled to learn it. Every 
Sunday morning she and her little brothers -were ob¬ 
liged to recite poems to their father and mother. By 
the time the princess was nine years old, she could 
commit a poem of almost any length to memory, pro¬ 
vided only it were not in the Alexandrine meter, which 
was to her an abomination. At this time also she 
began to write occasional verses herself. When 
scarcely fourteen she had plotted dramas and dreadful 
tragedies. The more horrible these latter were, the better 
she liked them. Though she read early and late only 
the most beautiful poems, her fantasy produced only 
the most terrible ideas. This constant contrast in ab¬ 
sorption and production had its effect upon her moods, 
which were alternately gay and melancholy. “I cannot 
help myself,” she was wont to confess mentally; “I 
cannot be gentle; I must rage. I would thank these 
mortals from the bottom of my heart, if they only had 
patience with me. It would not be so bad if I could 
but open the safety-valve and let the poetry come.” 
When, later in life, there was cause for the deepest woe 
and melancholy, this safety-valve opened of itself. 

At fifteen years of age Elizabeth settled down to 



12 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


study in earnest. Her governess was replaced by a 
tutor, who was an excellent English scholar. All the 
lessons were conducted in English. She studied Eng¬ 
lish history, arithmetic and geometry, and translated 
into English, Italian and Latin, reading in the latter 
Horace, Ovid and a part of Cicero. She had lessons 
in natural philosophy from the father of an intimate 
friend. A Parisienne instructed her in French, and read 
with her in the evening the chronicles and memoirs of 
Froissart, Joinville, St. Simon and others, and the 
dramas of Moliere, Racine and Corneille. To her 
mother she read aloud the German classics and Schil¬ 
ler’s “Thirty-Years’ War.” Lessing’s „ 9 ?atl)ait ber 
SBetfe" she read to her again and again. In one sum¬ 
mer she read Becker’s Plistory of the World from first 
page to last, and did the same with Gibbon’s history. 
She read daily three newspapers, and devoted herself to 
politics. She studied with interest and enthusiasm, but 
as she said herself, she would throw history or gram¬ 
mar, for which she had a passion, into the corner if she 
could put her hand upon a tale or legend. She came 
upon Elizabeth Wetherell’s “The Wide, Wide World,” 
and read it time after time with devouring interest. 
Like many another school-girl, she buried the book 
under her Ovid translations, and stole from Duty in 
order that she might give to Pleasure. No one will be¬ 
grudge her the mild excitement when he learns that 
until her nineteenth year she was never allowed to look 



INTRODUCTOR V SKETCH. 


13 


into a novel of any kind. Even then she was only per¬ 
mitted to read “Ivanhoe” and Frey tag’s „@ott Uttb 
£>abcit" in the evening after her cup of tea. This was 
a rather serious life for a girl of Elizabeth’s tempera¬ 
ment, but fortunately she was able to find poetic diver¬ 
sion even in the midst of such tasks. She found it in 
the life at Monrepos. This beautiful summer home 
is high upon one of the hills composing the range of 
the Westerwald Mountains. It commands a more 
extensive view than the castle at Neuwied, and at the 
same time it includes within its horizon all the points 
of beauty that can be seen from the castle in the town, 
upon which it looks down. The glory of Monrepos 
lies in the forest that stretches away from it in mile 
after mile of grateful shade. “ Here the princess Eliza¬ 
beth was in her element,” says her biographer; “here 
were forest and freedom.” She roamed careless and 
gay, with Nature for her only companion. She listened 
to the voices of Nature, to the singing of the birds, to 
the rustling of the leaves, to the rippling of the Wied- 
bach, and to the moaning of the tree-tops; and she 
whispered the secrets of her heart to her voiceful and 
sympathetic companion. She whispered in song, the first 
songs of a young poet-life. She roamed and sang, and 
the people called her the Forest-Rose Princess. From 
her sixteenth year she began to copy her poems regularly 
in a book, whose existence she confessed to no one. 
She wrote simply and naturally, with never a rule to 



14 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


follow but the notes of a bird or the beatings of her 
heart. Until she was thirty years old she knew ab¬ 
solutely nothing of the art of poetical composition. 

She was not happy away from her forest home. 
When seventeen, she made a visit to Berlin, and she 
filled her journal with home-sick verses and songs of 
melancholy. She longed for the breath of the forest 
and the sight of the Rhine. But this visit is remem¬ 
bered less for these youthful verses than for an acci¬ 
dent or incident that befell the Princess. It was 
nothing serious, nothing more than falling down the 
stairs of the palace into the arms of the prince who 
was one day to become her husband. The story seems 
to be founded only on a kind of gossipy tradition, bu 
there is a flavor of romance about it that has led the 
superstitious, viewing the incident from this side of the 
marriage, to believe that the union was fated to occur 
from the day Elizabeth fell into the arms of Prince 
Charles of Hohenzollern on the palace stair. 

In February of 1862, when the princess was eighteen 
years old, her younger brother, Prince Otto, died, after 
a long period of invalidism. The parents were grateful 
that their son’s suffering was at an end, but the death 
was a great sorrow to Elizabeth. The palace seemed 
hollow and deserted, and even when she sought the 
mountain heights she could not get above the heaviness 
of her heart. For a few months she held a little school 
among some poor children, and found diversion in her 



INTRODUCTOR Y SICE TCH. 


*5 


zeal as teacher. To them she devoted three hours a 
day; she read to her invalid father another three hours; 
and for four or five hours she devoted herself to the 
piano. But when the winter came on, Prince Her¬ 
mann’s state of health required a change of climate. 
They went to Baden-Baden, and for a time Elizabeth 
enjoyed the gayeties of life; but while there she re¬ 
ceived the news of the death of her dearest friend, 
Marie von Bibra. This death set the sorrowing muse 
to work again, and many a mourning song was the re¬ 
sult. In the autumn of 1863, however, the sorrow was 
again dispelled by the pleasures of travel. She was in¬ 
vited to accompany the Grand Duchess Plelene of 
Russia, a relative of her mother’s, in a visit to Switzer¬ 
land. So happy was their life together at Ouchy, on 
Lake Geneva, that the Grand Duchess invited the 
young Princess to return to St. Petersburg with her. 
There she studied the Russian language, read, and 
took music lessons, first of Rubinstein, and later of 
Clara Schumann. While on this visit, her father died 
after years of suffering. But Elizabeth, who was just 
recovering from a severe illness contracted in St. Peters¬ 
burg, did not return at once to Neuwied. In June of 
1864, however, she was with her mother again in Mon- 
repos, which now became their home for both winter 
and summer. 

From 1864 until 1868, Elizabeth’s life was uneventful 
except for several journeys in her own country, trips to 



i6 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


Paris and Sweden, and an extended visit in Italy. It 
was while in Naples that the Princess came to the con¬ 
clusion, as the natural result of her studies and sym¬ 
pathies, that she was by nature fitted and by heart 
inclined to become a teacher. She was then twenty- 
four years old. She wrote to her mother that she was 
determined, if she did not marry, to prepare for the 
teacher’s examination. She was willing, however, 
patiently to bide her time. But she did not tarry that 
suitors might make their bows before her. She would 
have none of them. One day some friends who were 
discussing matrimonial projects with her, said they 
would like to see her on a throne. “ The only throne 
that would allure me,” she jokingly replied, “ would be 
the Rumanian; for there would still be a chance there 
to accomplish something.” In the light of subsequent 
facts this joke about a throne that did not then exist 
must be considered little less than marvellous, and it is 
not only the superstitious who wag their heads when 
they come to this point of the story of Carmen Sylva’s 
life, and mutter their proverbs about true words and 
jests. 

Rumania was only a principality subject to the Sub¬ 
lime Porte, when in 1866 Prince Charles of Hohen- 
zollern was placed at the head of the state, with the 
title of Prince Charles I. of Rumania. He had distin¬ 
guished himself in the Austro-Prussian war, that grew 
out of the Schleswig-Holstein conflict; and even before 



INTRODUCTOR Y SKETCH. 


*7 


that General von Moltke had said, “ The young 
Prince of Hohenzollern is destined to play a role in 
life and to let himself be heard from.” He had not 
been long in Rumania when he made up his mind that 
the country needed a princess as much as it had needed 
a prince, and as quickly he made up his mind that he 
would offer his heart to Elizabeth of Wied, whom he 
remembered to have met in Berlin, and with whom his 
sister had kept up an active correspondence. The 
Prince confessed the desire of his heart to Elizabeth’s 
mother, who undertook to assist him in his suit, or 
rather, in true German fashion, to conduct it for him. 
A rendezvous that should appear accidental was ar¬ 
ranged at Cologne, and there, in October of 1869, Prince 
Charles and Princess Elizabeth met, fell in love, and 
became engaged all in the space of an afternoon. The 
engagement was a short one of necessity, and on the 
15th of November the marriage was celebrated in Neu- 
wied with such pomp and circumstance as the quiet 
Rhenish town had never seen before. But it was all as 
nothing compared with the splendor of the reception in 
Rumania, and of the marriage ceremony according to 
the rites of the Greek Church. 

After her marriage, Elizabeth devoted herself at 
once to the study of the institutions of the country and 
of the language of the people, which, being a Latin and 
not a Slavic language, was easily acquired by her in 
consequence of her knowledge both of Latin and 



SONGS OF TOIL. 


i3 


Italian. In September of 1870, the Princess became the 
mother of a daughter. For four years only did this 
child live, but those four years were the happiest Eliza¬ 
beth had known since her own childhood. The full, 
warm love of her nature she bestowed upon her little 
Marie. The child was one of hundreds of children to 
succumb to what seemed a plague of diphtheria, typhoid 
and scarlet fevers, which raged in Bucharest during the 
winter of 1873 an d Until April Marie withstood 

the diseases, but then scarlet fever, followed by diphthe¬ 
ria attacked her, and the slender body of the child had to 
yield. The deathbed scene was woefully pathetic. The 
mother watched hopeless and helpless above Marie till 
the last. The little one in her delirium started from her 
trundle-bed and would not lie down. “Oh, no, no!” 
she said in terror, “if I lie down I shall fall asleep and 
never wake up any more.” And again she exclaimed: 
“ I want to go to Sinaia, and drink of the water of Pe- 
lesch.” But when a glass was reached out to her, she 
shook her head and said, in English, “ All is finished,” 
and shortly after passed away in her English nurse’s 
arms. The mother stood there immovable, without a 
tear and without a complaint; she said, simply and 
reverently, “ The good Lord loved my child more than 
I, and has taken her to him. I thank God he gave her 
to me.” 

This loss was to Elizabeth like the end of life. She 
had, as we have seen, met death before. First her 



INTRODUCTOR Y SKETCH . 


19 


brother, then her father, and one friend and relative 
after another had been taken from her. Her sorrow in 
each case was keen; but now it was dull and heavy, and 
harder and enduring. It permeated her life; and yet 
she did not wholly give up to it. It broadened her sym¬ 
pathies and increased her benevolences, and, indeed^ 
widened the scope of her life, and made her the “little 
mother’’ of her people. To them she had devoted her¬ 
self from the first. She had found that the jesting 
words of her maidenhood were true indeed: here, in 
Rumania, there was still a chance to accomplish some¬ 
thing. Her first work had been for the school-children. 
A poor-union was established to provide proper books 
for the education of the children. The Princess found 
that there were absolutely no school-books or popular 
works in the Rumanian language, and she set about 
translating at once the best French books for children. 
Her object was less to interest the young than to de¬ 
velop a strong national character, which she well knew 
could not exist without the basis of language. In other 
ways, too, she sought to strengthen Rumanian nation¬ 
ality. She encouraged the use of the national costume, 
and made the wearing of it obligatory at the public 
charity balls in Bucharest. She established a school 
of embroidery, which is one of the national industries, 
and a union called “ Concordia,” whose purpose is 
to further the development of all national industries. 
She founded also an asylum for orphans and waifs, 



20 


SONGS OF TOIL . 


in which between four and five hundred girls from 
five to twenty years of age are housed and educated 
in the practical affairs of life. We are told that 
the reputation of this home is so exceptional and 
wide-spread that the young men of Rumania think 
themselves lucky if they can choose a wife from among 
the industrious girls in the “ Asyle Helene.” To sum 
up in the words of Miss Zimmern,* “ She founded 
schools, hospitals, soup-kitchens, convalescent homes, 
cooking-schools, and creches; she encouraged popular 
lectures; she inculcated respect for sanitary laws, most 
needful in an eastern land; she founded art galleries 
and art schools. ” Some of her charitable enterprises, 
not here enumerated, were described to me in a recent 
letter from the Queen’s private secretary, Mr. Robert 
Scheffer, to whom I am indebted for many suggestions 
and kindnesses. Concluding his description, he says: 
“But as the Queen does not like her charitable works 
to be known, I shall only add that the quantity of good 
done by her Majesty in private is incalculable, and not 
one-tenth of it is known by the public.” 

All this work, which she had begun while " Itty,” as 
her little daughter was endearingly called, was still 
alive, the childless mother found a sweet solace in the 
days of her great sorrow. A still greater comfort, how¬ 
ever, was found in an appeal to that talent which had 
been hers from childhood, but which had never been 


* The Century Magazine, August, 1884. 




INTR OD UC TOR Y SKE TCH. 


21 


cultivated. No one dreamed that the Princess Eliza¬ 
beth was a poet. But one day a native poet named 
Alexandri called upon her in Bucharest, and she said 
to him : “ I would like to make a confession to you, but 
I have not the courage for it.” After a long silence, 
however, and amid many blushes, she added: “ I, too, 
make verses.” At Alexandras request she produced 
some of her songs, and the poet was warm in his praise 
of them. He urged her to continue writing, and in¬ 
dited many poems to her himself, which she translated 
from the Rumanian tongue into German. While at 
work upon these translations, she wrote: 

“ The greatest possible change has come over my poet-life. I had 
no idea that poetizing is an art, or that one must learn how to be a 
poet. I had supposed that to learn to make poems would be like a 
man teaching a bird to sing. Verses and rhymes flowed from my 
pen more easily than prose. I feared, as soon as I attempted to bind 
myself to rules and methods, I should forfeit my talent as punishment 
of my empty conceit. In the terrible pain of the spring of 1874, songs 
were no longer a relief. Only the strain of exhausting toil could 
deaden it. And so I took to translating.” 

She applied herself diligently to this work, and said 
soon after that she had learned more by translating than 
in any other way. She showed her work to another poet 
of local fame, whose advice and assistance she received. 
In the following summer, with her mother, she paid a 
visit to England, and spent two days with Max Muller at 
Oxford. She had with her a little book in the form of a 
missal, which she had prepared for her mother, and 



22 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


which she called “My Journey through the World: a 
collection of Rhymes and Verses, dedicated to the 
Mother Heart.” The book contained the poems that she 
had composed from her sixteenth to her thirtieth year. ,, 
Scarcely one of these was known to her mother. 
Charles Kingsley was present when she surprised her 
mother with the gift. Elizabeth showed to them the 
four lines in which she prayed God to preserve her 
child from unhappiness, want, and sin; and as she 
pronounced the last line: „©lt Voeiftt e§ : 3d) f)abe nur 
Griltcg," Kingsley’s eyes filled with tears, and the mother 
wept for joy and pain. 

In January, 1875, Elizabeth wrote: “ I am not trans¬ 
lating at all now, because I write so much myself.” 
Her poetic activity was at its height when she was 
visiting Sinaia. This beautiful region was to Bucharest 
what Monrepos had been to Neuwied. Here again she 
found freedom and the forest. The beautiful stream of 
Pelesch dances down the rough side of the mountains 
and winds into the valley of Sinaia. It is shaded by 
primeval forests in which the nightingales sing and the 
wild-flowers bloom. There the sad mother-heart found 
rest even while her mind was inspired to activity. In 
this region of beautiful wildness she laid the corner¬ 
stone of her summer-house in August of 1875, an d the 
dancing stream, for whose water her child called in its 
last delirium, gave its name to the castle whose towers 
rise among the trees of the forest. The princess 



INTRODUCTORY SKETCH. 


23 


Watched the progress of the structure with the greatest 
possible interest, and with no little sympathy for the 
workmen whose polyglot of tongues — no less than 
twelve in number — made the silences about the for¬ 
est and the quarries ring with strange sounds. Had 
she not watched the toilers in the quarry near by, from 
which all the material for the castle was taken, she pro- 
babably would never have written the touching song of 
„@teinfcf)tteitoer," page 142. 

It was at the end of this summer that Elizabeth 
wrote the libretto for an operetta performed during the 
following winter in Bucharest. The work was a poeti¬ 
cal adaptation of an old Rumanian legend. 

When the princess had been working at her poetry 
zealously for more than two years, at such times and 
hours as freedom from official life permitted, and just 
at the time when she had sufficient material to lead 
her to think of publishing her work to the world, the 
Turko-Russian war broke out, and Rumania became 
the battle-ground of a terrible conflict. That was not a 
time for poetry, except of the heroic order. The poetry 
of words was forgotten in the poetry of deeds. Prince 
Charles of necessity took Russia’s side, and became a 
gallant leader against the Turkish crescent. Princess 
Elizabeth followed the army, and sought to temper the 
misery of the battle-field. She was the Florence Night¬ 
ingale of the war. Her people called her “ the mother 
of the wounded.” Childless, she was always a mother. 



*4 


SONGS OF TOIL . 


She moved from bed to bed in the hospitals, and 
spoke words of comfort, nay almost of healing. She 
was worshipped by every sufferer. At the close of the 
war a marble statue was raised to her by the wives of 
the officers of the Rumanian army as a memorial of the 
merciful part played by her on the battle-field. Fol¬ 
lowing the war there was a rearrangement of boundary 
and territory between Russia and Rumania, which was 
ratified by the treaty of Berlin, which, at the same time, 
recognized the independence of Rumania as a kingdom, 
though providing that certain conditions should be ful¬ 
filled. These were carried out, and in March, 1881, 
Prince Charles issued his royal proclamation. On the 
22d of May he was crowned with a diadem made from 
cannon captured at Plevna, where he distinguished 
himself, as did his people, for bravery. At the same 
time a golden crown was placed upon the head of “ the 
mother of the wounded.” The ceremony was carried 
out with true royal magnificence, and the day and night 
were given up to festivities and rejoicing. 

It is only since the end of the Turko-Russian war 
that the Queen, as we must now call her, has appeared 
in literature. It was in 1880 that the first book was 
published, bearing on its title-page the name “ Carmen 
Sylva” — an appropriate pen-name for one who loves 
the song and the forest as Elizabeth always has. This 
first book consists of translations into German of the 
Rumanian poems of Alexandri and others. At this same 



INTRODUCTORY SKETCH. 


*5 


time she wrote a French comedy for a company in Bu¬ 
charest, and a number of aphorisms in French, which 
were afterwards published in Paris under the title of 
“ Pensees d’une Reine.” * In 1881 the queen published 
her first book of original poems. The book is enti¬ 
tled „©tiirme" and contains four poems: „@appl)0/' 
„§ammerftctn," „lleber ben SBaffern," and „©d)iff* 
brad)." I cannot go into a criticism of these poems, 
which are of varying merit. Both Miss Zimmern t and 
Professor Boyesen J agree that „Sappl)0" is the best 
of the four. Of this Professor Boyesen says: — 

“Miss Zimmern has anticipated me in saying that “ Sappho,” the 
principal poem in this volume, is quite un-Greek. It is, in fact, both 
in form and conception, as Germanic as possible. It has none of the 
bright and unconscious sensuousness and heedless grace of Greek 
song. The fateful dream of Lai's, the daughter of Sappho, with 
which the poem opens, bears some resemblance to the dream of 
Chriemhild in the first canto of the “ Niebelungen Lay,” although 
butterflies are substituted for eagles. But apart from the moral ana¬ 
chronism which is implied in the domestic virtues and Teutonic con¬ 
scientiousness of the Lesbian poetess, there is much to admire. As a 
mere woman, without reference to age or nationality, Sappho is 
strongly and vividly delineated, and the songs which she sings, 

* That this work has a high standing in France may be judged 
from the fact that the French Academy, on April 25, 1888, voted to 
offer its author a medal of honor, devoting to this purpose a part of 
the accrued interest of the prize-fund established by Mrs. Vincengo 
Botta, of New York, for literary works composed by women. 

t The Century Magazine, August, 1884. 

X The Independent, November 24, 1887. 




26 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


though they have neither the Sapphic meter nor spirit, are lyrical 
gems which we could ill afford to miss. Thus the charming little 
lay: „2Bemt tobt idj tuerbe fein," in the third canto, has an “un¬ 
premeditated art” which none but true singers attain. It expires 
like a sigh in the air, and is as eloquent of the emotion which 
prompted it. The hexameter in “ Sappho is handled with much 
skill; but the perpetually occurring alliteration, to my mind, inter¬ 
feres with its melodious effect. As a metrical device alliteration is of 
Germanic origin, and seems alien to the spirit of Greek poetry. 
There is also a certain exasperating monotony in the constantly re¬ 
peated initial letters, which gives an air of artificiality even to the 
noblest verse.” 

In 1882 appeared „ 2 )te 5 pe£C," a collection of poems 
inspired by Carl Cauer’s statue of “ The Witch.” Of 
this book Miss Zimmern says: — 

“ This work is very characteristic of the Queen’s writings, in that 
she is apt to write too fast, so that excellent fundamental ideas are 
made abortive by inadequate execution. She does not observe the 
Horation maxim; the impetuosity that is a part of her character is 
reflected in her work. She lacks patience. This fault is really to be 
deplored, and the more that the Queen has genuine poetical gifts, a 
fine fancy, a musical ear, fire, and grace. But her facility consti¬ 
tutes her weakness. Had she not been a royal author, had she had 
to do battle with the exigencies, caprices, uncertainties of publishers 
and editors, she would have received just that schooling which she 
lacks, and which hinders her from being a great poet, and confines 
her within the ranks of minor singers.” 

I cannot find the evidences of haste that appear 
to Miss Zimmern. The portions of „ 2 )ie ipcjce" that 
might have been hurriedly done are those written in ar 
unrhymed trochaic tetrameter, but even these show no 



INTRODUCTORY SKETCH. 


a7 


carelessness in construction. And there are poems 
in the work which are as good in point of technique as 
anything the Queen has done. It is, moreover, hardly 
fair to charge with violation of the Horatian maxim one 
who kept the secret of her compositions to herself from 
her sixteenth to her thirtieth year, and only began to 
publish when she was nearly forty. 

The next poetical work of Carmen Sylva’s that was 
published is entitled „3ef)0t>al)." It describes the wan¬ 
derings of Ahasuerus in search of God. His journey 
begins with the scoffing assertion, ,,(5$ iff fciit ©ott!" 
and ends with the acknowledgment, „©ott ift effitg 
SBerbett." The poem tells its story with force and fer¬ 
vor. “It would be vain,” says Professor Boyesen, “to 
deny the exalted beauty and dignity of the verse in 
which the wrestlings of Ahasuerus with the infinite are 
depicted.” The Queen’s next volume of verse made its 
appearance in 1883, under the title of ,,'jfitone This 

is a collection of lyrics and songs — the kind of verse that 
shows Carmen Sylva to the best advantage. This was 
apparent even in „©appl)0," the most beautiful parts of 
which are the songs, introduced in much the same way 
and to the same purpose as the interludes are intro¬ 
duced by Tennyson in the “ Princess.” The first poem 
of „2y?eiite 9htp" is called „©armen" and the last, 
„©plt>a." Between these boundaries the Queen has 
poured out her heart and made her appeals to and 
from nature, and written down her pretty conceits and 



28 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


the epigrams in which she delights. The first edition of 
„2Jietne was quickly exhausted, and I have been 

unable to obtain a copy, much to my regret, as it con¬ 
tained the first series of „£>anbft)erferlieber" — “ Songs 
of Toil.” These were withheld by the Queen from 
the second edition in order that she might improve and 
enlarge the series, which has now been concluded, and 
comprises the poems originally published in „2ftetlte 
Sftul)," and those now first gathered in this volume. 
The Queen will publish the entire collection in a vol¬ 
ume by itself, I am informed, some time during the 
coming winter. 

To a book of poems published in 1884 Carmen Sylva 
gave her whole heart; for this one is entitled „ 9 J£ein 
Sftfyetit !" Here she writes of the places she loves 
most, the spots dear to her Sugeitbseit. „ 53 ingen," 
„£orelei," „S)ie SJtofel," „ 3 Jtonre!po«," „3Utrmeb," are 
some of the titles of the thirty songs that make up this 
book. The songs are as sweet and simple as the twenty 
etchings that adorn the volume are beautiful. One 
more volume of poems has followed this. It is entitled 
©ltd)/' and contains a collection of poems upon 
Egypt. I have not been able to secure the volume, and 
cannot speak of its merits. 

Of the Queen’s recent prose works I have space to 
give little more than the titles. They comprise: „£ei’ 
ben§ Gsrbettgcmg" (1882), a collection of Rumanian le¬ 
gends; „§tu8 (Sarmeit ©tyfba’S $onigreid)" (1883), also 



INTRODUCTORY SKETCH. 


29 


a collection of tales, which were revised in a new edition 
published last year; „(§in ®ebet" (1883), a story; 
„2Iu§ 3tt>ei 2Beften" (1885), a novel; „2lftra" (1886), 
a novel; „(§8 (1887), a story; and „$?elbboft" 

(1887), a novel. In the composition of 3 U)ei 

SBefteit," and ^efbpoft" as well as of a col¬ 
lection of tales called „ 3 >it bcr the Queen had 

the collaboration of the Frau Dr. Kremnitz. In Au¬ 
gust of 1887 the Queen translated a novel by Pierre Loti 
in the space of fourteen days, and published the book 
under the title of „ 3 §Ianbfifd)ev." During this period 
of marvellous literary activity the Queen also revised 
and brought out a new edition of her “ Les Pensees 
d’une Reine.” She has had the satisfaction of seeing 
many of her songs set to music by Bungert, Reinecke, 
and other composers. Some are now in preparation 
by Madame Augusta Holmes and Charles Gounod; and 
Bungert, lam informed, is to set the „§anbft)eifei:lieber" 
to music. It is now necessary that I speak in detail 
of these „§attbti)erf'erUeber'' or “ Songs of Toil,” to 
which I have several times alluded. 

The “Songs of Toil,” which give this volume its 
name, have never been published in Germany or Ru¬ 
mania. Seventeen of these songs, in German and in 
English, w r ere first published in The Independent of New 
York, in November, 1887. Six others were published 
in the same journal in July of the present year. The 
rest appear now for the first time. Early in the summer 



30 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


of 1887 I wrote to Carmen Sylva, in my capacity of edi¬ 
tor of the poetical department of The Independent, 
asking her to contribute to the columns of which I had 
charge. I received in reply seventeen “ songs,” together 
with the following note from the Queen’s secretary: 

Castel Pelesch, August 21st, 1887. 

Secretariat de S. M. La Reine de Roumanie. 

Editor of The Independent: 

Sir: — In answer to your honored of the 16th past, Her Majesty 
the Queen, breaking for once her rule of never giving any of her 
productions to a periodical, charges me to send you the second 
series of ^aubtoerferlieber," the first of which was published in 
Carman Sylva’s „ 9 Jleine i^luf)." The inclosed seventeen songs, 
being of quite recent date, have not yet appeared in print, and Her 
Majesty leaves it to your choice to publish them all or to make a 
selection of those most adapted to the American public. In case the 
peculiar and essentially German character of the poems should render 
a satisfactory translation in verse difficult, Her Majesty thinks it 
would suffice to give the German original, adding to it a good trans¬ 
lation in prose. As to the offered honorarium , Her Majesty is 
pleased to accept it as a contribution to the sums produced by the 
sale of her other works, which form a special fund for needy authors; 
you will please send the money to me. I beg also that you will give 
me immediate notice on receipt of the manuscript, and I am, sir, 

Your obedient servant, 

Robert Scheffer, 

Private Secretary to Her Majesty the Queen of Rumania. 

After these poems had been published, the Queen 
herself wrote me the following note: 



INTRODUCTORY SKETCH. 


3* 


Sir :—Your translations of my songs are so very beautiful that I 
was quite surprised in reading them. There are very few little things 
you have perhaps misunderstood, but they are scarcely worth while 
talking of when it is all so very good. As I have translated a good 
deal myself, I know the difficulties very well, and I admire your work 
in consequence. I am very happy to be brought in so beautiful a 
clothing before your American public, and I thank you kindly for all 
the pains you have taken. 

Elizabeth. 

With this note the Queen sent me „ 3 itU," page 62, and 
„@d)eerenfd)Ieifertteb/ / page 38, and subsequently her 
secretary forwarded to me the twelve additional songs 
which are included in this volume. 

It is fortunate that the American public should first 
know the Queen as a poet through these „§attbtl>erfer* 
lieber for they are at once the index of her character 
and the illustration of her genius. I say genius, for 
certainly the chief attribute of genius is not wanting — 
originality. The „§cmbtt)erferUeber" in conception and 
expression are original. It is true that in some of 
them, in the „ 93 acfet:Ueb," page 92, and in „3)ei* ©eigen* 
mad)er," page 138, for example, there is a suggestion of 
Heine; but this is so slight that we may say that the 
Queen’s songs are distinctively her own. And they are 
the index of her character. No one can read these 
songs and not know the Queen. She said herself, in 
one of her letters quoted by her biographer: “The 
pictures of my fantasy are seldom gay — they never 
were.” Her life has been a sad one, and most of these 



32 


SONGS OF TOIL . 


songs are sung in a minor key. But it is not a selfish 
sadness that the poems reveal. On the contrary, her 
boundless sympathy for the poor is the most striking 
disclosure of these “Songs of Toil.” It is as special as 
it is comprehensive. In each case does she seem to have 
entered into the life, made up of trials, hope, pride, am¬ 
bition, discouragement, sorrow, or joy of the one whose 
song she is singing. No proud queen ever showed such 
touch of sympathy. She has the soul to feel and the 
gift to sing. Into the lives of others she pours her own 
heart-beats. How admirably in the „©d)ifferlieb," page 
68, has she contrasted the two phases of the boatman’s 
life, whose home is on the Danube. We see him one day 
sailing merrily down with the current, the picture of in¬ 
dolent ease and joy; and the next day we see him toiling 
along the sandy shore, towing his boat to the upper 
stream, his task severe, but his progress sure. Again, 
one is at a loss to fancy how so disagreeable a subject 
as the „ ; U£e£ger" could have been treated better than 
in the grimly humorous way in which the Queen has 
set forth the „ 9 Jk£c|erUeb," page 40. In „' 3 )er 
tttann," page 64, what a vivid glimpse of the farmer 
sowing his seed do the words „3t0ei ©cfyritte boint bte 
£>attbt>oll" present! Again there is genius in the co¬ 
quetry of the mill-stream; the pathos of the „3tmmer= 
UtaiuiSlicb/' page 42, is as simple as it is sweet; „ 3 Seim 
giittern" page 52, and „ 33 eim lIMfen," page 56, carry 
the odor of clover with them; and so on through the 



INTRODUCTOR Y SKE TCH. 


33 


list we find that each has a charm or a piquancy of its 
own, until we come to the „@teiltfd)neiber," page 142, 
where we are forced to believe that the question of the 
concluding lines, with its inevitable answer “No!” ap¬ 
plies to the toiling poor of whatever trade or calling. 

In speaking of the „§anbVDerfertieber," I must not 
overlook their mechanism. The measures are chosen 
with an appreciation that is little short of inspiration. 
For example, wherever the trade of a songster is associ¬ 
ated with any kind of noise or motion, we have both 
sound and motion reproduced in the meter; this onoma¬ 
topoeia is especially noticeable in the „ 9 JliiUerlieb," page 
48; the „£ityferUeb" page 98; ^abiermcufjer," page 
46; „ 33 eim ©pinnert," page 80; and „2)er 58 ffifer," 
page 130. The Queen has an excellent musical ear; 
the numerous feminine endings and the double rhymes 
are sufficient proof of this. One is even inclined to ad¬ 
mit that her variation of the sonnet form is felicitous, 
as it appears in „2>cr ^arbenreiber," page 88; „£>er 
£anbbrieftrciger," page 116; and „2)er @amcmn," page 
64. This substitution for the iambic pentameter of an 
iambic hexameter with extra syllables at the end of the 
third and sixth foot is a musical device of which the 
Hungarian poet Lenau has availed himself in at least 
one notable instance. It is quite possible that his 
poem, „2)er §erbftabenb," may be a favorite with the 
Queen. 

In concluding this sketch of Carmen Sylva’s life and 



34 


SONGS OF TOIL . 


work, and in presenting the translations of her ^aitb* 
tnerferliebei’," I must urge that her graceful style is not 
to be judged by whatever harshness there may be in the 
English versions. Read the original, those who can; 
the translation, those who must; read, and you will ac¬ 
cept the statement of the venerable poet Whittier, that 
the Queen of Rumania is “ crowned not alone with a 
diadem and title, but with the laurel-wreaths of poetic 
genius.” 


New York, August, 1888. 


J. E. B. 



SONGS OF TOIL 










SONGS OF TOIL. 


THE SCISSORS-GRINDER’S SONG. 

T~^ ETCH on your scissors, your slender blade — 
A To make them brilliant and sharp’s my trade; 
±o every door-step my grindstone comes, 

And on and ever it strolls and hums. 

I and my grindstone, we wander by, 

And no one asks me from whence come I; 

How poor I am, no one cares to know, 

None care to hear of my spirit’s woe. 

I’m ground by sorrow both day and night, 

And yet I never am polished bright; 

I’m ground by hunger, and though it pales 
The face, to sharpen the wit it fails. 



f?anbn?erf<>rlie6er 


Sdjeerenfcfyletferlteb. 

jjringt ber bie ©d)eeren, Me ^lingeit feixt, 

& 3d) madf fie glcingenb xitxb fcf)avf unb rein; 
(58 barrt mein 9 iabd)en oor jebcr Sljiir, 

Unb fdjnurrt unb manbert fo fur unb fur. 

3 d) unb mein 9 ?dbd)en, mir cjci) , n uorbei; 

(S§ fragt mid) Seiner, mol)cr id) fei; 

2 BUI Seiner miffen mie arm id) bin, 

SBill Seiner Ijorcn mie mel) mein ©inn. 

iX^id) fd)teift bie ©orge bei Sag nub 9 ?ad)t, 

Unb l)at mid) beunod) nid^t fcin gcmadjt; 

9 ftid) fdjteift ber hunger, nub mad)t bod) nid)t 
Sen SBilj mir fdjaifer ein blani ©efidjt. 

9 Jiid) fdjteift bie $eue, unb Idf3t mir bod) 

Sa§ §eqe fdjartig unb roftig nod). 

Sab 9 iab ift cmfig unb raul) ber ©tein — 
SBringt ber bie Bingen — id) mad)’ fie fein? 

33 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


39 


I’m ground by grief, but the work is ill, 

For notched and rusty my heart is, still. 
The wheel is whirling, the stone has grit — 
Fetch on your steel — shall I sharpen it? 





ftd) bin ein §enfer, id) fdjminge ba§ 33 eif, 
^ Uitb men id) trcffe, mirb nid)t me!)r fyeil 
Hub men id) binbe !ann nid)t metjr gefy’n; 
SBeft id) faffe, fann nimnter ftefy’n. 

3 d) bin ein 2)oftor, brum fomrnt ju mir! 
3 d) t)ei(e jebeg ©ebredjen fyter; 

S)ie BebenSmiibigfeit gcl)t fiirbafj 
9 ftit einem einjigen Stberfajj. 

3 d) bin ein SBirti) nub mein SBeht ifl rotl), 
Hub mit ber $reibe Ijat’S !eine 9 ?otI); 

23 or ineiner @d)enfe gefyt nid)t toorbei, 

S)ie ift fid/er, bie 3 e ^) e frei! 


40 


THE BUTCHER’S SONG. 


T AM a headsman, the ax I swing, 

* And if I strike that ends the thing; 
And what I tie up cannot get loose — 
The head I grapple can’t slip the noose. 

I am a doctor, so come to me ; 

Here heal I every infirmity ; 

The hypochondria is cured for good 
By only a single letting of blood. 

I am a landlord, my wine is red; 

I chalk no slate when a man is fed ; 
Don’t pass the inn that belongs to me; 
The rest is certain; the score is free ! 


4* 


< 5 immermannslte 5 * 


JjJJtr ging eg gut, fo nad) mtb nadj; 

® ^ie ftitber tuurben grofi : 

2 ftein eigen §au§ mar miter 2 )adj — 

@o fdjBn mar tnir fcin ©djlofj! 

Unb : „ 35ater!" fagt fie, „ 2 Bei{ 3 t 2 )u nod) ? 

(Sinft gab eg trodfen 23rob! 

3 e£t gielfu tug eigne £>au 8 mir bod)!"— 
S)ie 9Kutter, bie ift tobt! 

S)er @d)reiner Ijat iljr £>aug gebaut, 

Unb sid)t ber gimmermann; 

©tatt rneiuer fjat ber ^farrer taut 
£>en ©eg-enSfprudj getban. 
ajftt §eierfati 0 unb <5tfodetifIattg, 

Unb 23tumen btau unb rotlj, 

©tatt ©taferftang bag §er^ ntir fpraug; — 
2 )ie aflutter, bie ift tobt! 


42 


THE CARPENTER’S SONG. 


M Y lot grew lighter day by day; 

The children grew apace; 

I built a little house last May — 

No palace like that place. 

And—“Father,” said she, “sure you know 
That once we ate dry bread ? 

Into our own house now we go ! ”— 

The Mother, she is dead! 

Her house the undertaker made, 

And not the carpenter; 

My grace unsaid, the pastor prayed 
In loud tones over her. 

The day that’s spent with merriment, 

’Mid blossoms blue and red, 

No music lent — my heart was rent 1 — 

The mother, she is dead. 


43 


44 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


2Bir batten's bod) fo meit gebradjt, 

SKir alteg 23ogefyaar! 

2Ber bat an'S @terben and) gebadjt, 

TO man beifantnten mar! 

SSerrammelt finb bte genfter bidjt — 
SDamit bat's Jeine ‘iftotb — 

SSerfanft bag £>aus! 3$ mag e $ nid)t— 
£>ie Gutter, bie ift tobt! 



SONGS OF TOIL. 


45 


We pulled together many a year ; 

Like old bird-mates were we; 

But who e’er thinks of dying here 
While both together be ? 

Fast barred is every window-blind — 

I care not what is said; 

Yes, sell the house! I do not mind — 
The mother, she is dead 1 



Paptermadjer. 

Jffj ie alten happen mir gugefiiljrt! 

~ 2>ie fdjntufc’gen lumpen pineingeriifyrt 

3um 93rei, jura iBrei, mie ba§ SBellgerid&t! 
£um 23rei, gum 23rei, mie ein fang @ebid)t I 

®ann fommt e§ fdjneeig unb gtatt IjerauS, 
3lu§ Gotten unb SBalgett unb 9iabgebrau@, 

3u grojjen £>errn, mit bcr grauleiit 3ier; 
§itr fleine 2)icf)ter, gunt tRacfytgefdjmicr; 

3u geituttggfdjreibern mit ^ofte^aud^; 
gflr ^iebesbriefdjen mit ©djmeidjetraudj; 

Unb gu Sftomaiten, b’ritt fdfyledfjt ergaptt, 

2Bie ftd) bie SMenfdjljeit fo toeiter qucilt, 

Stuf glcidjett ge^en, in ben bereiuft 
2)ie Straiten ftromten, urn bie bu meinft! 

46 


THE PAPER-MAKER. 


HP HOSE pieces of rags be quick and bring! 
The dirty old shreds are just the thing — 

For pulp, for pulp to record life’s wrong, 

For pulp, for pulp for a poet’s song. 

It comes out smooth and glossy and thin, 

From rollers and wheels and cylinders’ din, 

For lords and ladies their notes to indite ; 

For petty poets, who scrawl by night, 

And newspaper scribblers who bluster and blow; 
For little love-letters where compliments grow; 

And stories in which the afflictions of men 
Are wretchedly told by an unskilled pen 

On just such rags as once wiped away 
The tears wdiereat thou weepest to-day ! 


47 


2TTiiIIerIte6. 


|^oh)ie bom Staffer 
^ ®Qg Sftiifylrab getjt, 
@o mirb bom £tebd)en 
Sftetn @iitn gebrcfyt. 

(S@ foft, e§ ftreidjelt, 

©8 fdjilt unb fpriil)t, 
itnb ladjt unb menbet 
2ftir mein ©emiitlj. 

SSie fteif id) md)re, 

@ie fpridjt fo fdjnell; 
Unb batmmenb menbet 
©id) il)r ©efeii. 

Unb blappcrt SMmort, 

Unb ifl fo bumm, 

Unb gefjt nub glaubt il)r — 
SSeig uidjt marurn. 

48 


THE MILLER’S SONG. 


T UST as the water 
^ The mill-wheel twirls, 
My little sweetheart 
. My senses whirls. 

She chats, caresses, 

And chides me ill, 

And laughs and changes 
My mood at will. 

And if I murmur, 

She talks so fast; 

And her companion 
Gets cross at last. 

He rattles an answer, 

Some silly cry, 

And goes and believes her — 
He knows not why. 


49 


5o 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


2)ocf) fte ijityft tneiter. 

2)e§ 2eben§ frof), 

Unb madjt’3 bent 9?ad)ften 
jDaun ttrieber fo. 

S)er Sad) ift treuloS, 

2)a6 SDfagMein fdjtedjt — 
O 2ftui)lenraber! 
OMert fnedjt! 



SONGS OF TOIL. 


5i 


But on she capers, 
Through life so gay, 
And treats the next one 
The selfsame way. 

The brook is faithless, 
The maiden coy — 

O whirling mill-wheel 1 
O miller boy! 



Betm ^fittern. 


|ie buftig riecbt’S irn ©tall! 2)ie $iit)e ftrecfen 
Sie £atfe tang, mit ltngebulb’gcm 23rummen, 
Sen $tee begniftenb mit jufrtcbncm ©ummett, 
Uitb mie bie Sftafen fie fo gtcinjenb letfeu! 


Sie fdjbnen Sljiere mit bem ©ammetHeibe, 

3m goibuen SHdjt ber ©ommermorgenfonne, 

Sftit queUenb mterfdjityftem ScbenSbrortne, 

SDfcit golbncn ©antmetaugen ooUer £eibe. 

Unb ftumm erbutben bann fie beirn ©ebcircn 

Ser ©Emergen ^ein. 2Bie futb bie aub’rett Siilje 
2$oE SKitgefiiljl! Soft foarlid) unb mit Mf)e 
©ie an bem Sage brummenb STlitcf) gemcifyren. 


Sa8 fyerj’ge $albd)en mufe idj nun belugen; 

Sie £anb im ©imer. Sfteine ginger taugen 
TO ©ntertrug. Se§ 3arten Sftauldjens ©angeti 
giUjl’ id) fo marrn mit innigem SBergniigen. 

5 * 


FODDER-TIME. 


II ow sweet the manger smells I The cows all listen 
A 1 With outstretched necks, and with impatient 
lowing; 

They greet the clover, their content now showing— 
And how they lick their noses till they glisten I 

Jhe velvet-coated beauties do not languish 

Beneath the morning’s golden light that’s breaking, 
The unexhausted spring of life awaking, 

Their golden eyes of velvet full of anguish. 

They patiently endure their pains. Bestowing 
Their sympathy, the other cows are ruing 
Their unproductive udders and renewing 
At milking-time their labor and their lowing. 

And now I must deceive the darling bossy — 

With hand in milk must make it suck my finger. 
Its tender lips cling close like joys that linger, 

And feel so warm with dripping white and flossy. 


S3 


54 


SONGS OF TOIL . 


©iefelbe §anb, tie mir tie Seute fiiffert 

93oU (§l)rfurd)t, mtb bie ntalt imb foielt unb 
bidjtet — 

O id) immer ttur ben $Iee gefd)id)tet; 

2)aS lmfdjulbS&oHe $uf)finb ua^reit miiffen! 



SONGS OF TOIL. 


55 


This very hand my people with devotion 

Do kiss, which paints and plays and writes more 
over—' 

I would it had done naught but pile the clover 
To feed the kine tnat know no base emotion J 



Betm 2TToIfen. 

■fool ©o! Siebe 23raune! turn gieb jdiott ber! 
^ 2)ann friegt bein $albd)en aud) um jo nteljr! 

Unb bajj Sn’S loei^t: bon ben ^'albdjen all’ 

3ft SDetn’S ba§ jdjonfte bom gangen ©tall! 

©djmarjbraun ift e§, mit meij 3 ent ©tern! 

©elt? S)n mUlft’§ Ijaben, S)u lecfft jo gern? 

2)a! fit^ 2)etn $leinc§! nnb brmnnie nidjt 2>n! 
3d) lafe’ e§ bod) nidjt jum Xrinlen jit! 

Unj' gran nennt’3 ^olluj; baS mar' £atein, 

3d) benf: auf 3)entjd) mirb’S mol)l 33utlod)§ jein. 


56 


MILKING-TIME. 


O o! so! pretty Brownie, come let it down 1 

I’ll give the more milk to your bossy brown 1 

You know well enough in yonder stall 
Your bossy’s the prettiest boss of them all, 

With its dark-brown coat and the star on its brow. 
What’s this? You insist you must lick it now ? 

There! Kiss your little one; now be still I 
Not yet can the bossy drink its fill! 

Madame calls it Pollux; you know the name; 

’Tis the Latin for Bullock—it’s all the same! 

57 


CTm pfluge. 


ter ift ber Hdergrunb fo tief nub fdjmer; 

2td^t Deafen giefjen einen ^3fXug mit Mlje, 

Unb meift gefteibet gefj’n in filler $riif)e, 

3n fjeifter ©tuti), ber 9ftamt, bie grau, bather. 

$ein Sung. ©ie fiifyrt, er briidt bie ^ftugfdjaar feljr — 
9tuf baft au§ (Srbenfd)ooft il)r $inb erbUifye, 

©ebiert im $etb fie, ber Sag bergliiije, 

Domini barfuft mit bem ©angling bann bafyer. 

©tuft mar bie 9?ad)t gcreift id), im ©emdlbe 
$on S3aierlanb ermadjt, ber £>eimatl) gu 
glog id) gum 9tl)ein, gum Sftutterlcin in 33albc! 

„Saft id) in Sentfd)Ianb bin, ©ott! geig’ mir’S Su!" 
3motf «f)dufiein Snug, auf tettergroftem ge!be, 

3nt Vittel, pfliigt’ ein 2Jfann mit feiner M)! 


58 


THE PLOWING. 


T HE soil is here so deep and hard, their might 

Eight oxen spend and strain beneath the plowing; 
And here at morn and when the sun is glowing, 

The farmer and his wife toil, clad in white. 

No dung. She guides, he holds the plow down tight — 
And there her baby, like some blossom growing 
From Mother Earth, is born. Barefoot and bowing 
Beneath its weight, she bears it home at night. 

One night, in the Bavarian forest waking, 

I journeyed homeward hasting to the Rhine, 

Myself to my sweet mother swift betaking. 

“ That this my country is, God give the sign! ” 
Twelve heaps of dung, in frock a farmer breaking 
His tiny field with plow and cow in line. 

39 


3m Klee. 


JUjtit rotten £iid)Ietn int rotten 2ftot)n, 

® Bur SJtittagSrutj, 

3)a nicfen fid) fidjernb im gliifterton 
®rei 2Jiagbtein §u. 

2)er S3urfd) bort briiben im aitbern ^ib 
£>at Ijergefefy’n, 

Unb breljt nod) immer bie 5lugen —gett?— 
3m SBeitergefy’n. 

Unb ftngt unb fdjfenbert non Ungefafyr 
D^ocf) ’mat borbci, 

Unb fdfaut berftotjten fo mieber fjer: 

,^od) immer 2)rei!" 

2)ann fiugt er tauter unb eitt baron: 

//3d) get)' fd)on, gel)’! 

2)er flufut l)ote ben ganjen 9ttot)n 
3m fdjonen ^tee!" 


60 


IN CLOVER. 


\ 1 7TTH kerchiefs red where the poppies grow, 
* ’ In midday shades, 

Nod each to other and titter low 
Three little maids. 

The lad who yonder strays to and fro 
Here casts his eye, 

And ever he looks askance — oho ? — 

In passing by. 

And sings and saunters past as by chance 
Continually, 

And sees with every stolen glance : 

“ Still ever three ! ” 

Then louder he sings and away he goes, 

“ I’ll be a rover ! 

The devil take each poppy that grows 
In pretty clover! ” 

6x 


3ult. 

2® ie SBlumenpuptc^en begriiften ftdj 

^ 3n meinem ©arten unb iticfen; 

Uub buften errotljenb unb miiffen fidfj 
S5iet £iebe§boten fdjicfen. 

3)ie armen 33Iunteit! fie ntodjten gern 
©inanber ^artlid) umidjUngen, 

2)rum fenbeit fie alfo ben SDuft Doit $ent, 
©id) ju auf ber Sitfte ©d)mingen. 

3n meinem ©arten ba fdjmebt unb bebt 
(Sin SBunbevmerben tebenbig; 

3n meinem ©arten ba fpinnt unb rnebt 
2>er 2tebe Men beftdnbig. 


6a 


JULY. 


1\A Y garden-flowers, in summer bloom, 

1 With common greetings are bending; 
And each to other, ’mid blushing perfume, 
Their bearers of love are sending. 

The poor, poor flowers! they long to share 
With each their tender embraces; 

So send from afar, on the wings of the air. 
Their scents through the garden spaces. 

There hovers and hangs, among the leaves, 
A marvel that ceaseth never; 

Among the leaves love spins and weaves 
The strands of life forever. 


63 


£)er Sdrnann. 


itffaugt bie (Sonne mitbe ben SDunfi ber feudjten ©rbe, 
^ 2)ie tief imb buftig martet anfs neue @aatemp= 
fangen; 

$ornfd)nitt imb @toppclfeuer nub ©rate ftnb bergan= 
gen; 

SSorbei bent Untergrnnbe bee fd^arfen ^3flug§ SBefdjtnerbe. 

2)er Samann jdjreitet einfarn nnb entft anf bramter 
©rbe — 

3tnei Sdjritte, baitn bie §anboott. $ein 3anbern nnb 
!ein SBangen; 

S)ie fleinen 23ogeI folgen nnb ptefen boll $erlangen. 
©rftrent; bod) ©ottee Sonne mu&gnabigrnfen: „28erbe!" 

Unb ob ber ftroft fie tobtet, ob SDiirre fte bernidjtet, 

3m g-riiblingetmnbe miegenb bie §atme anferftefjen, 
Unb in bem nad)ften §erbfte ber Corner ©olb erfdjidjtet. 

64 


THE SOWER. 


B ENEATH the mild sun vanish the vapor’s last wet 
traces, 

And for the autumn sowing the mellow soil lies 
steeping ; 

The stubble fires have faded and ended is the reaping; 
The piercing plow has leveled the rough resisting places. 

The solitary sower along the brown field paces — 

Two steps and then a handful, a rhythmic motion 
keeping; 

The eager sparrows follow, now pecking and now 
peeping. 

He sows; but all the increase accomplished by God’s 
grace is. 

And whether frost be fatal or drought be devastating, 
The blades rise green and slender for spring-time 
winds to flutter, 

As time of golden harvest the coming fall awaiting. 

6s 


66 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


@8 fieljt tie gragett Seiner, bie auf belt Sippeit fleljen, 
S)ie battgettbeit @eban!en, bie fdjmere @orge bicfjtet. 

2ftit fejier £aitb mug fdjmeigettb burcfy’S gelb ber @a* 
mattn gcljett. 



SONGS OF TOIL. 


67 


None see the silent yearnings the sower’s lips half 
utter, 

The carping care he suffers, distressing thoughts cre¬ 
ating. 

With steady hand he paces afield without a mutter. 



Scfyifferlteb. 


*]|ergunter gefjt’g im 2ftonbtidit, 
& Sergauf im ©onnenbranb; 
Sergunter auf ben SSetten, 

Serganf im tiefeu ©anb. 

Sergnnter frei am ©tener, 

3)a§ ipfeifdjen glimmt im Sftuttb 
Sergauf ba gieljt, at§ ©anmtljier, 
9ftan Svnft wtb Reuben munb. 

2Ba§ t)itft mir’3, tnenn id) tjeute 
2)e§ ©trome3 $onig bin, 
©djteidj’ morgen id) al$ Settler 
Serarf)tet an ifym t)in ? 

Urn meine Sufifaljrt jdjtieftt ftdj 
gurd)to8 bie SBafferftnr; 

Som !end)enb tiefert ©djreiten 

Steibt tang im ©anb bie ©pur, 
68 


THE BOATMAN'S SONG. 
OWN stream 'tis all by moonlight* 



Up stream at blazing noon, 

Down stream upon the ripples, 

Up stream through sandy dune. 

Down stream, the helm held loosely, 
A pipe between the lips; 

Up stream, like beast one straineth 
And galls the breast and hips. 

What boots it that I seem like 
The river’s king to-day, 

If to-morrow like a beggar, 
Despised, I tug away ? 

My pleasuring leaves no furrow 
U pon the water-plain; 

The marks of struggling footsteps 
Long in the sand remain. 


5ifi?er. 

G|n ©otlanb mar’s, grau toft bie €te, 

® ©ran war bet #immet brob nerbangen, 
©rauweifj ber @tranb toie Sperbfteswef), 
2)er 2Binb, bie SSetteii ijdttgen. 

2)ort !ommt e$ btnfrotf), fern beran, 1 
©in <Segel! 5iuf! bie gifcfjer! ^rauen 
2Bie Hftowert ftiirmen l)’er; wet tann 
2Boi)i feme ^inf erfdjauen! 

Sluftaudjen mie bie f^totte bicfjlt 
9^un S3oot an 35oot t>or SBolfenbaften, 
SWit §offnung$angft im ingefidjt 
§eran bie ^ratten maUen. 

3n weiften £>anben fte^n fte ba, 

3u §unberten qereiljt am ©tranbe, 

SKit fmoern, — 25er ben ©atten Jab? 
2Ber auSblieb ? SBeidjcr lanbe ? 


70 


THE FISHERMAN. 


T N Holland ’twas. The sea was gray, 

And gray the heavy hanging heaven; 
Gray-white the shore with autumn spray, 

The wind and waves gray even. 

Afar a blood-red cloud streams out — 

A sail! The fishing trip is over! 

Like gulls the women flock about: 

Who can her boat discover! 

Sail after sail from out the gloom 
Before the flaming cloud now passes; 

Near rush the wan-faced women whom 
An anxious hope harasses. 

With children, and with hooded head 
In hundreds on the shore they’re standing; 
Who saw her spouse ? Which one is dead ? 
Which one will now be landing ? 


71 


72 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


(Sin Reiter jagt irn @d)aum bafyer, 

@ein <Sd)immel gleidjt bem @ifd)t ber SBelle, 
3ft fattelloe, ba3 £>aupt ift leer, 
llnb barfujj ber ©efelle. 


(S§ trieft bon SBaffer fein ©emanb, 

(Sr fangt ini SBurf bie fdftberen @eile, 
Uub tvagt fte bon bes @d)tffe8 9tanb, 

3 urn Ufcrfaitb, in (Sile. 

(Sr jagt — ii)m fliegt fein blonbes §aar — 
3m ©turnt jn all ben brannen ^infen, 
Unb jeigt ben £>arrenben— ’$ ift flar! — 
SDftt eincm rafdjen 2Bin!en. 

©ie fdjrei’n bie 3^1 bom ©djiff I)inab, 
(Sr Ijebt bie finger, unb bie SBogen 
S5ont (Saule fpiilen ilju t)erab, 

(Sr fdjroingt fief) auf int 33ogen. 



SOiVGS ON TOIL. 


73 


A rider through the foam hastes there; 

His steed is flecked with white and yellow, 
His saddle’s gone, his head is bare, 

And bare-foot is the fellow. 


With water all his clothing drips; 

He casts the rope where he would fain land 
In haste to drag them from the ship’s 
Deck forth upon the mainland. 

With streaming hair he presses near 
Where all the other boats are beating; 

And to those waiting signs — ’tis clear ! — 

His one quick nod repeating. 

They shriek the number of his ship; 

He becks'and ’neath the billows, flinging 
Him from his racer, seems to dip, 

Then on the crest goes swinging. 



74 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


„@d)on gmangig SBodjen," fyracf) ein SBei5, 
„3ft fern mein Oatte bort im SJleere." 

2He SK-utter nidt — „2Xm Seben bleib’ 

3d), bi§ er mieberfel)re." 

Sin ©d)iffgl)err aitf ben Sftacfen tafet 
3)em jungen 9flann fid) big gum ©tranbe; 

©ein 2Beib umfdjlingt fan jaudjgenb fefi: 

©ein $inb tangt auf bcm ©anbe, — 

Hub bant, &or g-reube mtgeriigt, 

2>en SSater in bie berben 23eine, 

2)er fifatt eg nic^t, erga^Xt bcrgniigt, 

SSem 9faeber &on ber Seine. 

®ie Sbbe faXIt, bag Xe^te SBoot 
$ann tro£ ber Site nid)t mebr tanben. 

/,3a," farifat bag SBeib, „Sn fiir * ©tiicf £*rob- 
Uub fdjeitern ober ftranben!" 


* 6n filr = ein fauer. 




SONGS OF TOIL. 


75 


“These twenty weeks,” so spake a wife, 

“ Far off my spouse has sailed the ocean.” 
His mother nods: “ I’ll cling to life 
Till he’s here, with devotion.” 


The owner of the ship at last 

Bears the young man safe to the strand there; 
His wife shrieks out and holds him fast; 

His child skips o’er the sand there. 

He lets it pelt his legs with shells, 

Unchided though behaving badly, 

Nor does he feel it as he tells 
About the rope so gladly. 

The tide recedes, the last crew fail, 

In spite of haste, at landing. 

“Yes,” speaks the wife; “His bread is stale, 
His fate — shipwrecked or stranding 1” 



7 6 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


Sen ©angling an ber 33ruft, fo ftetjt 
Unb fyarrt bort (Sine, fdjarf bom SBinbe 

UmjTattert. 2Bie fte forgfam bret)t, 

,3nm ©dju^ bem fleinen $inbe! 

•iftitleibig farad) id): „£abt 3i)r nod) 

£)er ^inblein meijr, mie bicfeS fdjone?" 

„9J£ef)r?" rief fte ftolj unb ftrecft' fid) : 
„ s Mt bem l)ab’ id) eiXf ©oI)ite ! 44 

„(Silf ©i3l)ue!" 2£ie eitt ©djrci entflolfit 
2Bar neibuoll mir ba§ Sort com SDtabe; 

©ie manbteit ftd) nad) jenern Sou 
Unb bvdngten in bie 9?unbe. 

(Sin ©(faent in ber Slugen ©rau, 
ftntg mid) ba§ 2Beib, bag $inb am §erjen: 

„2Sie niele fyabt benit 31jr, me * $rau ?" 
£odjmiitI)ig Hang’s, mie ©d)er$en. 


me = nteine. 




SONGS OF TOIL. 


77 


With babe at breast where winds sweep wild, 
There stands and waits and stares another. 

How turns to shield her little child 
That anxious loving mother! 

“Pray hast thou”— spake in pity I — 

“ More children sweet as this one even ? ” 

“More?” called she proud, her head raised high; 
“Of sons I have eleven.” 

“ Eleven Sons 1 ” I shrieked the word 
In envy; how it did astound me! 

They turned then who my cry had heard 
And gathered close around me. 

She asked—her eyes were gleaming gray, 

Upon her heart her babe was resting: 

“How many, lady, hast thou pray?”— 

It sounded like gay jesting. 



7 8 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


2Bie t>iet ? @ie falj'n mid) an, 33erfauf 
Hub 2Jieer t>ergeffenb, (§W unb @d)immel— 
3d) fci)it)ieg f bob einen ginger auf 
Unb beutcte 'gen £>itnmel. 



SONGS OF TOIL. 


79 


How many? Staring they forget the sea 

And trade and tide and foam-horse even; — 
I raised one finger silently 

And pointed up toward heaven. 



Betm Sptnnett, 


^tit SftcigMein fdjmebt baljin burdj'g jfelb, 
2>en griinen $rug anf’8 §aupt gefteHt, 
2)ie rotfje 9WF im rotljen Sttnitb, 

2)er 2eib jo fdjlanf, bie Sruft jo runb; 
©efdjurjt eilt jte bon pmten, 

Seim ©pimten. 

2)ie $unfel ifjr im ©iirtel ftetft, 

2Bie nicblid) ftc ba§ §anbd)en redt, 

S)ie ©pinbet tanjt unb !ommt unb flie^t; 
©ie bord)t auf’S Sogelmaienlieb, 

5Iuf cider Sadjlein jftinnen, 

Seim ©pinnen. 

$fot Sftupaum bei bem Srunnen ftep 
2)cr fdjlante Surjd), unb Ijarrt unb fpaljt, 

80 


SPINNING SONG. 


'’jp PI ROUGH yonder field there fares a maid, 
A water-jar upon her head, 

A pink between her rosy lips; 

Her form is lithe, and light she trips; 

She hastes away so winning, 

While spinning. 


Her distaff from her belt depends — 
How simply she her hand extends 1 
The dancing spindle flies along; 

She listens to the May-bird’s song, 
Or brooklets gaily dinning, 

While spinning. 

Beneath the tree the brook runs by 

A tall lad stands and waits to spy? 
Si 


82 


SONGS OF TOIL . 


3>er ©urt fo breit, ba§ £>embe nteifj, 

§aar tfl fdjttxtrj, ba$ Singe Ijeift,— 
SBaS inirb fie nun beginnen 
33eim ©pitmen? 

„3e£t Iauf mir nicf)t ttorbei fo tott! 

$aft ieitte £anb, ber $rug ift t»oU; 

2)ie fMfe fiefjl' icf) mir jnerfi, 

Unb ob 2)u 3)id) auci) biegft unb inefyvft, 
2)ett $ujj tniE id) getbinnen 
SBeirn ©pinnen!" 

©ie lornmt bon nnter’m 33anm fyeranS, 
Unb fiept ntir fo beranbert anS — 

$ort ift ber $inbernbermntl), 

2)a§ Singe biicft boll tiefer ©Inti), 

3n trauntberiornem ©innen, 

S3eim ©pinnen! 



SONGS OF TOIL. 


83 


His chest is broad, his blouse is white, 
His hair is black, his eyes are bright,— 
But what is she beginning 
While spinning? 

‘‘Now pass not by so quick and coy; 
The jar and flax your hands employ; 

So first I’ll steal the pink aw r ay. 

Though in defence you stand at bay, 

A kiss you’ll find me winning 
While spinning.” 

She comes forth from beneath the tree, 
And she appears so changed to me — 
Her childish confidence is dead, 

Her eye is full of passion, fed 
By thoughts and dreams beginning 
While spinning. 



Uf?rmacfjerlte&* 

JMfir ift c@ mie unjernt §errgott faj* 

3n a£1 bettt 9tdbergetricbe, 

3d) tjab' an bent 3 eu 0 1° nrnne Sujl 
Unb nteine Eiebe! 

©e^eimni^oll ift aufammengeridjt,’ 

2Jiit ©djrauben unb ^eilett unb ®d)Ieifen. 

Sin ©tofe! Sann geljt eS auf einmal nid)t, 
Unb mitt nidjt greifen! 

Unb miifytmll ftnnt man bei Sag unb Sftadjt, 
SBare gern uoc Merger geftorben, 

2)a I)at ein Solpel 'mas b'ran gemadjt, 

Unb Allies toorborben! 

2)er Ufyrmadjer broben fyat’s gnt gefiigt, 

Unb jauber gefdjraubt unb tter^ieret; 

2>ie 2ftenfd)en fyaben nur, jUEbergniigt, 

Ss ftracfs ruiniret. 


84 


THE CLOCKMAKER’S SONG. 


T SEEM like the Lord himself in the cogs, 

1 In the wheel, the spring and the lever; 

My heart beats with it as on it jogs, 

And will forever. 

’Tis made by a wondrous process in shops, 

With screws and filing and rasping. 

A shock! — Then on the second it stops, 

The cogs not clasping. 

The careworn maker thinks night and day 
He’s ready to die of vexation, 

Because some young blockhead accomplished in play 
Its ruination. 

The Clock-man above is a master-hand; 

His work’s well fitted and polished; 

But mortals delight to see what’s planned 
At once demolished! 


85 


86 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


2 )ann Jotmnt ber 2 Mfter unb madjt’g guredjt; 

(5ud) fdjmerst ba§ ^eilen unb ^affen; 

3 »ljr fdjrcit unb jammert, ba§ Serf fei fd)Ied)t, 

£>er ©djlag jum §affen! 

2 )od) menu bas Ufyrmerf 311 (Snbe geljt, 

2)ann rcollt 3^r Dor SSangen ber^ageu; 

©amt fcfyiebt 3f)r ben Geiger: „ftocf) meljr!" — $u focit: 
©3 Ijat eudj am togeu! 



SONGS OF TOIL. 


8 > 


Then the maker comes and repairs it again; 

You’re pained by the filing and fitting; 

The work is miserably done, you complain; 

You hate the hitting. 

When the clock’s worn out, as decreed by fate, 
You’ll hear the dreaded “’Tis time!” 

You’ll push the hands: “Goon!” Too late! 

It’s got you this time! 



X)er ^arbenreiber. 


y%et fteine garbenreiber bermijit jxrf) # oljne giereit, 

^ 2tn feincr 2fteifier SBilbern tie g e I)to fc^arf ju 
riigen. 

„§ier alte ^arben, 3unge! ®u follft un§ sum 33er- 
guugeu 

Sta felber etft>a§ maten, ftatt un§ su critijtrcn." 


Unb fjeftig tfyut bie SMnttanb ber $nabe grau tier* 
fdjmieren: 

„(Stn SEIjurm im 9?ebel ift ba§, in unbeftimmten 
3ugcn!" 

£>oI)n Iad)t er: „Of)ne (Sifert faun fdjmerlid) einer 
pfiugen, 

„3d) mill mit fdjlcdjtem 2Ber!seug nid)t meinc 3eit 
berlieren!" 


THE COLOR-GRINDER. 


r | ''HE little color-grinder full wantonly was sneering 
At all his master’s pictures, their errors sharp 
upbraiding. 

“ Take these old colors, youngster; your smartness 
cease parading: 

Do you yourself paint something, and be not over¬ 
bearing.” 


The ardent boy his canvass with gray begins a- 
smearing: 

“A tower that is, but misty, with outlines dim and 
fading.” 

He scoffs: “ One must have iron for ploughing and 
for spading; 

I will not waste my vigor with good-for-nothing gearing.” 


9° 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


Ijaft £>u gute ^titfel unb garben; bod) nuit geigc 
gum lenten 2Tfal £)ein $onnen." — 2)a nrirb ber 
^iinftter toad): 

Sr matt brei Heine @pa£en, int @djnee auf biirrem 
Stoeige. 

SDie Skater !ommen ftaunenb: „2)a@ mad)t ifym Seiner 
nad) !" 

giir ©olb toarb’S gteid^ erbanbett, feirt $ummern ging 
gur 9?eige: 

S8 toarb ber Heine Seeding ber grofce $d)enbad). 



SONGS OF TOIL. 


9* 


“Take these new paints and brushes, and once for all 
redouble 

Your efforts.” Lo, the artist now first is animate: 

He paints three little sparrows, in snow, above the 
stubble. 

The painters are dumbfounded: “Him none can 
imitate ? ” 

It brought him gold directly, and banished all his 
trouble: 

That small apprentice lad became Achenbach the 
great. 



Bacferliek 


■tx mollte nodj lebett, 
SSetm’g 23rob itid)t \vax\ 
£>en tog ttod) b^beit? 

3bn fveufs nidjt rtte^r! 


3)a§ gteifd) mar’ fabe, 
ton 23ein mar’ fug, 
2ftir mar’s ttid)t fcfjabe 
Um$ ^arabies! 

SDort gicbt’3 !ein ^euer 
ton Dfett nid)t, 

3)a fabr’ id) treuer 
3ur §ofle jdjUd)!, 


Unb bote tagltd) 

2Mn 33rob beraus. 
<58 fiet)t bod) ttagtidj 
3m §immet aits! 


<52 


THE BAKER’S SONG. 


TT 7HO’D live on with pleasure 
’ * That had no bread ? 

Or drain his measure ? 

His joy’d be dead I 

There’d be no savor 
In meat or wine; 

I’d scorn the flavor 
Of things divine. 

No fire’s up yonder, 

No oven for dough, 

So quick I’d wander 
To hell below. 

And daily I’d fetch it — 

My batch of bread — 

My outlook how wretched 
In Heaven instead! 


93 


94 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


Urtb ptf einc J?rone 
Unb ©center id), 

Unb gab’s auf bem £l)rorte 
$eitt S3rob fur mid) — 

3d) gittg ats SSanb’rer 
2)a»on, atlein; 

©S foil ein SInbrer 
£ier ^onig feinl 

SBie buftet’S eben — 

3I)r SBangert rotf)! 

2)aS 93rob foil lebett, 

S)aS Uebe SBrob! 



SONGS OF TOIL. 


95 


Were crown to me given, 
And scepter beside, 

Were a throne mine, even, 
And bread denied, 

I’d flee, ever straying 
Afar, alone, 

Another here swaying 
Upon my throne. 

The sweet smell of thee! 

Thy cheeks how redl 
O Bread, I love thee! 

So, long live Bread! 



Setlerlteb. 


Jjjjtie^ nebm’ id) »om Seibc 

©en £auf Ijeraus, 

©od) mein ©efd)aft idj betreibe 
27ttt SKabgebrauS. 


2Bie ©binnmeb’ fatten tie 0eite 
'©en pummel ftefy’n, 

©od) fallen in ©turmeSeile 
©’rauf 2Weuf(f>en geb’n. 

©’ran fallen fte fdjmeben unb Ijangen, 
$ont 9fteer bebrobt; 

©’ran fallen fie beten unb bangen, 

3n ©obeSnotfa 


©ort merben fte ladjen unb pfeifen 
©em Ocean, 

©a hungerjdjreden mid) greifen— 
2ftid) armen 2ftannl 

96 


THE ROPE-MAKER’S SONG. 




T LIKE the spiders a spinning, 

A J My hemp play out; 

But I work with the dinning 
Of wheels about. 

My cords, like webs toward Heaven, 
Shall stand sublime; 

Yet there in tempests even 
Shall sailors climb. 

And there they’ll hover and quiver, 
Nor mind the roar; 

And there they’ll pray and shiver 
By death’s cold shore. 

They’ll laugh and scoff at the booming 
Made by the sea, 

The dread of hunger consuming 
Poor wretched mel 


97 


Opferlteb. 


S)u tm $rei[e! 
^ ©mig bie 9tofe, 

2)ref) bod)! 
dimmer gu raften, 

©itng gu Ijaften-— 

©el) bod)! 

Unten I)in tret' id), 

Oben f)in fnet’ id) 

2)ret) 2)od)! 

9?te barfft 2)u matt fctn, 
9?ie barfft 2)u fatt feiit— 
©et) bod)! 

2Ba§ mir aud) tod)en, 
33alb mirb^ gerbrod)eit— 
2>ret) bod)! 

Srinfen mirb’a nimmer, 
2)urfteit nur fdjtimmer— 
©ef) bod)! 


THE POTTER’S SONG, 


T2) OUND thou art wending! 
Never an ending! 

Twirl on! 

No time wasting, 

Ever hasting, 

Whirl on! 

Under treading, 

Over kneading — 

Twirl on! 

Never dare weary, 

Always be cheery, 

Whirl on! 

Though we may make it, 
Some one will break it — 
Twirl on! 

Though it drinks never, 
Thirsteth it ever — 

Whirl on! 

99 


LOFC. 





IOO 


SONGS OF TOIL . 


©id) foil fie fcpneUe 
©ragen gur OueUe — 
©ref) bod)! 

©ir Oott SDfoutb nippen 
SBUiige 2ippen— 

©ep bod^! 

©a§ ntan bie $riige 
Stile j$erfcpliige! 

©rep bodj! 

SMt ipr ben $aufctt 
©injeln Oerfaufeit! 

©ep bod)! 

©tes fiir ein ^iiftcpeit, 
©rei fiir bie ^iigdpen — 
©rep bocp! 

Uub fiir bie ©iden 
2ftiipt fie erftidcn! 

©ep bocp! 



SONGS OF TOIL . 


IOX 


Thee shall she carry 
Springward, and tarry — 
Twirl on! 

Lipping with kisses 
Ware such as this is — 
Whirl on ! 

Till we just take it. 
Jealous, and break it. 
Twirl on! 

Gladly we’d sell her 
All and then tell her — 
Whirl on! 

This for a kiss, now, 
Those three for this, now, 
Twirl on! 

And for this other 
Must she just smother — 
Whirl on! 



irtofaik. 

Menebig trciumt. 3)ie SJiarfuStirdje brettct 
^ 2)ie golb’ne ©dmm’rung liber SBunberfdja^e; 

Sits ob er fidj an fobiel @d)onl)eit Ie£e, 

©tieljlt ftd^ ein @onneuftral)t ^erab unb gteitet 

S)ort ©Ijrifii §aupt enttang, unb bebt unb fdjreitet 
§in, ob bein S3oben, in bie atten $ta£e, 

S)aS (Eljorfiuljfljolj Dergotbenb, b’rctn fid) fe£e 
2>er geiteu Sftajefiat, Don ©ott geteitct. 

Unb alT bie ^Sradjt lommt auS ber fdjmaten ^ammer ( 
2)arein ein SKenfdj ber farb’gen ©putter ©leiften 
2ftiif)fam pfammentegt mit tuinj'ger stammer, 

£>er griine ©djirm becft unterm £aar, bem meifjen, 
S)er SUtgen fd)tt)inbenb Sidjt. SSaS ti)ut ber hammer? 
2)aS 28crf ijt cmig — ©ott Ijat’s gut getjeijjen! 


102 


MOSAIC. 


HP HE island city sleeps. The twilight rideth 

Gold-shod above San Marco’s treasure-plunder; 
As if it would enjoy this golden wonder, 

A sunbeam stealeth in and softly glideth 

Along Christ’s head and trembleth there and strideth 
To earth where columns cut the light asunder; 

It gildeth, sent of God, the choir, where, under 
The dome, the glory of the ages bideth. 

High in an attic room this decoration 
In splendor wakens, where a man, deft-handed, 

Sets tiny bits of bright illumination — 

To shield his fading sight, his white locks banded 
With a green shade. — What profits lamentation? 
The work’s eternal — God hath so commanded 1 

103 


Capes ierer* 

(SBrutnm^or.) 

Jjj|cn 9)hmb boE Sftagel 

^ 2Bie ftngt man ba? 

3n ©toff bevgraben 
28ie Uiugt e§ ba? 

SBatb nalj bcr ®ede, 
©ebiidt auf $nieit, 

23i§ reicf)t ber S^eppicf), 
SSerriicft $u gieljn. 

SDen fd)onen 2)amen, 

©o reif unb jart, 

3ft guteS ^otfter 
9?ur fteif unb tyart. 

Unb ticf berfycingen 
$Der ©djeibe £id)t, 

Sftan geigt fein 
S3ei 2etbe nid)t! 


104 


THE UPHOLSTERER. 


(A Muttering Chorus.) 

HO could, his mouth full 



Of tac s, still sing? 
Thus deep in drapery 
A bell couldn’t ringl 

It almost reaches; 

Come, kneel, my lad 
And stretch the carpet; 
Now tug like mad! 

Fastidious ladies 
Declare the stuff 
On this fine cushion 
Too stiff and rough. 

These window-hangings 
Come down so far 
They let no passer 




See who you are. 

*°5 


io6 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


SBar’t 3f)r nod) toller 
SSott (Sitetteit, 

2)a8 madjt bem £>anbtoer! 
2)en 33eutel tueit. 

3Mt 3l)r oerfyiiHen 
2)en ©d)ein bet- 3cti)r, 
2>a8 giebt mir Kleiber 
SDer fteinen @d)aar. 

Unb toeit 3.1)r rufjet 
@o toeid) unb ttrnrm, 
@inb SBatif* in @d)ulen 
gitr SReid) unb Strut! 



SONGS OF TOIL. 


107 


Were you still wilder 
With vanity, 

’Twould fill the pockets 
Of such as we. 

If asked to refurbish 
The wear of years, 

It gives me clothes for 
My little dears. 

Because you’re resting 
At ease, secure, 

We have school-benches 
For rich and poor. 



Pergolber. 

5||a feljt mir nur tie Seute an — 

^ SBie mtbanfbar! 

2)er Sftembranbt mar ein braber 2ftann, 
S)a§ ift moljl maljr! 

S)cr 9?ubcn§ mar ja audj nidjt faut — 
2)ic gett bebadjt! 

Unb SSoumermamt ^at mand’en ©aul 
Sftedjt brab gemadjt! 

©anj fauber l)at SfturiUo ja 
Hub 9£eufd) gematt; 

®od) menu man SWafart’8 ^reife fafj — 
5Red}t fc^tedjt begaljlt! — 

®od) fagt: m blieb end) ber gffeft? 
3d) mein ben <Sd)arm! 

2)er ift im 9?af)nten b’rin berfteeft, 

3m ©olbton marrn. 


THE GILDER. 


JUST look now at the public once — 

^ A thankless crew! 

That Rembrandt was no simple dunce, 
Indeed is true. 

And Rubens painted far from ill—• 

For that dull age! 

And Wouw r ermann’s fine horses still 
Are quite the rage. 

Murillo painted soberly 
And Reusch as well; 

But if you Makart’s prices see — 

How poor they sell! — 

You say: Wherein lies your effect? 

The charm alone 

Is in the frame with which it’s decked — 
Its warm gold tone. 


109 


no 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


2)ie gai^en Sftater finb erft 
93iit id) babei! 

£)em 9?apl)aet ginget, oljne ©baft, 
3f)r fait borbei, 

£ielt er nic^t fcfjott im Sttaftmen ftd)! 

9In ©olb gebridjt’8: 

2>ie groftten $iinftler oftne ntidj 
©tub aHe ^idjts! 



SONGS OF TOIL. 


hi 


If aught of any painter ’s heard, 

Lo, there am I! 

You’d pass — this is no idle word — 
The Raphaels by, 

Unless they were set off by me 
In frames like these; 

The greatest artists else would be 
Nonentities! 



gtrrtmermaler. 

Is menn fie mir angemadjfen tDcir% 

~ @o manbU id} mit meiner Reiter either, 
Unb ftnge! 

Unb maf (5ud) reidje garben ftinein, 

9Jttt fatten ©fatten unb ©olbton fein, 

Unb ftnge! 

2)a8 fliegt mir 9UIe§ fo au8 ber £anb, 

Stn ^otsgetafel, TOambramanb, 

23eim ©ingen! 

S)a8 mirb ganj JiinftXerifcf) fein geftimmt, 
£>ier etmaS falter, baft bort e8 glimmt, 
SBeint ©ingen! 

5)ie ^raftifdjen ftaben gefdf)impft, getacftt, 
©efeufst, baft SnyuS in3 Men gebradjt — 
S)rum ftng id)! 


113 


THE PAINTER. 


A S though to my back it had chanced to grow, 

1 I carry my ladder wherever I go, 

And sing! 

I paint for you colors as rich as made, 

With a fine gold tone and just the right shade, 

And sing! 

With a twist of the wrist I accomplish it all — 

A wainscoting or an Alhambra wall — 

While singing! 

’Twill be well toned and artistic, you know, 

Here a little bit cold, so that there it may glow 
While I sing! 

The Old School has scoffed and sighed at the thought 
That luxury into life has been brought — 

I sing! 


”3 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


114 


SSicr !al)Ie SBanbe tmb b’rin eitt 2odj 
3ft and) ein gimmer unb eittfad) bod) — 
3um 23rummenJ 



SONGS OF TOIL. 


>15 


Four naked walls with a hole for a door 
Make a room, ’tis true; and simple, what’s more — 
For growling! 



Der Cartbbrteffrdger. 


tl)aut. 2)er @d)nee ballt branti ftdj auf ©raben, 
$etb mtb SBegen, 

©3 trieft bie SBogelbeere, ber @d)tamm ift tief utib 
tneid), 

©ie SBoIIen I)dngen bleiern, ber 5Ibenbfd)eitt ift bleid), 

©8 glan^t trie 23ad)e§bette ba8 £id)t auf alien @tegen. 

Unb cinfam auf ber 0trafie ftapft bort ein tniif)fam 
9iegen, 

©8 Ijinlt ber iBote frierenb, bie ©afd)e fdjeint tticfjt 
reid) — 

©in arrner iBrief an SIrme, rerfrumpelt, alt — ganj 
gteic^, 

©r rnufj an’8 3iel ©er 33ote fyinlt mub’ bem ©orf 
entgegen. 

©r podjt. ©a offnet fd)iid)tern ein Sftiitterdjen: „3m 
Men 


THE COUNTRY LETTER-CARRIER. 


TT thaws. On field and roadway the packing drifts 
have faded; 

The service-berry drips and the slush is deep and 
stale; 

The clouds hang low and leaden; the evening glow 
is pale; 

The paths gleam like a brooklet whose bed is all 
unshaded. 

Along the highway trudges a messenger; unaided 

He limps and halts and shivers; his bag holds 
little mail — 

A single wretched letter all crumpled, old, and frail — 

He must push on; the village he nears now, lame 
and jaded. 

He knocks. A timid woman admits him; “Till now, 
never 


ri 7 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


118 


©djreibt Seiner ntir? O §imntel! 2fteitt @oI)rt! 
©ieb eitenbs Ijer! 

Sr fommt! Ung ifi ge^olfen!" £)ie alten ^anbe 
beben — 

„$>u ©ottesbote! ttaljer, fefc’ 2)idj jitr glamntc Ijer, 
8dj toill bon nteinem $eid)tljum 2)ir S)einen SXntfjeit 
gebett," 

2>er arrne Sanbbrieftrager ^at toarm uitb Ijinft nidjt 
tnel)r. 



SONGS OF TOIL. 


119 


Had I a letter 1 Heavens! My boy! Quick, give 
it here! 

He’s coming! Now we’re happy!” Her aged muscles 
quiver — 

“God sent you here. Be seated and warm your¬ 
self : Come near; 

A share of my possessions are yours to keep forever.” 

The postman limps no longer, warmed by the 
woman’s cheer. 



Der SanMrdger. 


•fjanb! ©anb! ©anb! ©anb! 
^ 3dj bin fo tniib’, 3l)r 2eut! 
§at Seiner ©anb geftrent 

2) en gangen, langen, fatten £ag, 

S)a froftgitternb id) ftanb 

Unb £aften trag’! 

©anb! ©anb! ©anb! ©anb! 

(S§ ftnb nod) fiinf gn §au§; 

3) ie Shutter bie fdjafft b’rauS; 

£>ann tveinen fie, bie fteinen tob’, 
SBeil fte mid) auggefanbt, 

Unb fjnngrig finb. 

©anb! ©anb! ©anb! ©anb! 
©ort liegt ba§ S3rob gu £auf! 

Safe idj nur eineS fauf, 


120 


THE SAND-CARRIER. 
AND! Sand! Sand! Sand! 



^ Good Sirs, I’m almost dead, 

For no one sand has spread 
The live-long day, so cold and drear 
That ’neath my load I stand 
And shiver here. 

Sand! Sand ! Sand! Sand! 

Five more at home there are. 

While Mother toils afar, 

The little ones, who let me go 
With naught to eat at hand, 

Are weeping so! 


Sand! Sand ! Sand! Sand ! 
There bread in heaps doth lie; 
That I one loaf may buy 


122 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


@o nimmt 3l)r ?euf ben ©anb mir ab, 
SBeil idj fo meit gerannt 
Unb hunger I)ab! 

©anb! ©anb ! ©anb ! ©anb! 

S)er 5tbenb bridjt herein; 

•ftun friert eg ©tein unb 23ein; 

2>od) Ijeim id) nimmer geljen fann, 

©ie barren unbermanbt 
Unb fdjau’n mid) an! 

©anb! ©anb! ©anb ! ©anb ! 

2)ag Oleine jaudjgt unb Iad)t: 
f/ 2Ba@ t)aft ®u mitgebradjt?" 

3Me Shutter meint unb fagt fein 23ort, 
Sint fatten £>eerbegranb — 

SDamt fdjteid)’ idj fort. 

©anb! ©anb ! ©anb ! ©anb! 

2)ie SDjrane friert gu (Sig, 

3cf) ruf eg nod) gang teig% 



SONGS OF TOIL. 


123 


Do take my sand, so kind you are, 

For I’m so hungry and 
I’ve trudged so far. 

Sand ! Sand! Sand! Sand ! 

The daylight now has flown, 

Now freezes stone and bone; 

But home poor I can never flee; 

For those there still do stand 
And gaze at me. 

Sand ! Sand! Sand! Sand ! 

My child shouts out with joy: 

“What have you brought your boy?" 
His mother weeps — she cannot say — 
At the cold hearth-stone and — 

I steal away! 

Sand ! Sand! Sand! Sand ! 

My tears freeze like the snow: 

My call is now quite low. 



124 


SONGS OF TOIL . 


®ie £ciitfer forfeit f)eU unb tvaxm, 
2>od) offnet feme $anb — 

S)ort ttrinft etn 5Xrm! 

@anb ! @anb ! 0anb ! 0anb I 



SONGS OF TOIL. 

The houses gleam with welcome warm, 
But opens no kind hand — 

There waves an arm! 

Sand ! Sand! Sand! Sand! 


125 



Die Scfyeuerfrau. 

Jftttemt’S nur nidjt (S^rifiabenb it)ar% 
Unb gar jo biel £itf)ter, 

Unb all' bie £ijd)e jo jd)tt)er, 

@o frof) bie ©ejidjter. 

SBcir’S nidjt jo troftloS gufyaug, 

Unb rciirben nid)t toeinen 
Unb berlangten nidjt jo Ijinaug 
2)ie fyungernben $ieinen, 

Unb iljre SSanglein jo fdjmaj, 

SHe Ijeuf jftidjts jum (Sjjen 
SBenn bie nur afynten bie dual 
$>ie fyeut’ mid) bergejjen! 

2)od) idj fomme ju teife fjerein, 

Bum jcfymu^gen ©ejd)cifte 
Unb oerbraudje bei 2)ammerfd)ein 
£>ie fdjminbenben $rafte. 


»6 


THE CHARWOMAN. 


TF only ’twere not Christmas Eve, 

1 Nor bright other places, 

Nor loaded the boards I perceive, 
Nor happy the faces, 

And not so wretched at home, 

And none of this whining 
And begging for bread when I come 
By little cheeks pining 

To-day for hunger again, 

To deeply depress me! 

If they, who forget now my pain, 
Could see it distress me! 

Too listlessly come I and go; 

All dirty I never 
Must faint in the twilight glow 
But toil on forever. 


137 


123 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


9flir ftttb tie ©edjfe gu turner, 

SDic bleidjen ©eftdjter! 

Senn’g nur tticf)t ©fjriftabenb Mr’, 
Unb aUe tie Bidjter! 



SOJVGS OF TOIL. 


129 


Six children I have to relieve — 
How blanched are their faces! 
If only ’twere not Christmas Eve, 
Nor bright other places! 



Der Bldfer. 

meinent £>aitdE) in rotfye ©lutl], 

® 9Jttt Hug’ unb §anb in glammennmtl), 
93Ia@! 33IaS! 

Unb mag 3f)r fiilit unb fingenb leert 
£>at mir bag Mengmarf &er$eljrt: 

©lag! ©tag! 

3d) fe^' eg t>or ©udj ait ben 9ftunb 
Unb fdjmiug’ eg fyodj im $rei[e runb — 

53Ia§! S3Ia§ 1 

Unb mag mein tester £>aud) gemad)t, 

3fyr fdjlagt’g entgmei unb fingt nub lad)t — 
©lag! ©lag! 

Unb bei ber meiften glammen @d)ein 
©enF id) ber Ueinen $inber mein — 

23tag! SBIag! 


130 


THE GLASS-BLOWER. 


| BREATHE into the red-hot heat; 

A My eye and hand its fury meet — 
Blow! Blow! 

The glass you fill and singing drain 
Has sapped my life and might amain - 
Glass! Glass! 

I’m first to put my lips to it there 
And swing it circling high in air — 
Blow! Blow! 

My last breath makes the very thing 
You break in two, then laugh and sing 
Glass! Glass! 

Now softly by the white-hot flame 
I call my children each by name — 
Blow! Blow! 


132 


SONGS OF TOIL. 


®ie ©lutlj nrirb fait, batb lieg’ id) bort, 
SJicm fegt irtidf) tnit ben ©djerben fort — 
©Ia§! ©lag! 




SONGS OF TOIL. 


*33 


The fire grows cold; I’ll die, no doubt; 
With broken glass they’ll sweep me out — 
Glass! Glass! 



21 m XDebftufyL 


9|m btiitljemeiften §emb imb rodent 9locfe, 

^ 3m ©djleier, ber jnr @rbe nieberffiefjt, 

2)ag ©djiffdjen jagenb, bag mie’g Mnglein 
2)ie fleine £anb jo feft am langen ©tocfe, 

SBcbt ©pinngemeb ang eigner ©eibenfiocfe 
2)ie fd^otte iBauerin. ©ie Xad^eXt, gieftt 
(Silt jt$)eXmifd) iBlicfen auf iljr $inb, bag fdfjUe^t 
SBerfdjamt bie SSimper, unter bmtHer Me. 

Hub iibermiitljig fdjaut ber SSitrfdj herein: 

„2Xf}a, ba@ tuirb fiir meine iBrant ber ©djleier!" 
©tiE benft bie Shutter art beg SBaterg grei’n, 

SBor funfeefyn 3aljren! an ben ^er^engfdjrein 
^od)t jnfi bag Semite! — „ld), bie aXte Seier! 
3d) tanfe nod)! 2)er Mitf fjoF bie greier!" 


[ 34 


THE WEAVER. 


TN scarlet gown and blouse like lily-flower 
And flowing veil, a peasant woman tends 
The shuttle, darting like a mouse. She lends 
To the long beam her little hand’s full power 

To spin a web from silken floss. One dower 

She has — her beauty. How she laughs and sends 
A roguish twinkle to her child, that bends 
At every glance its shame-faced head the lower! 

Her forward boy looks in, exclaiming low: 

“Aha, my bride shall wear that long veil of hers l” 
The mother muses on her husband’s vow 

Just fifteen years ago: “The ninth child now — 

The old, old tale! — beneath my heart’s shrine hovers. 
I’ll christen more. — The devil take the lovers! ” 


135 


Diamantenfc^leifer. 

;g££d)on brei^tg 3al)r an eittem 9Mb 
^ 3n 331ei fenf id) ben @tein, 
$3i$ er Me feinften tauten f)at 
Unb geuerglut^ barein. 

• 

S)a§ Reiter au§ bem (Srbenfdjtitnb, 
®a3 Seiner ttad)gemad)t; 

2)aS geuer, ba§ im Slugengrunb, 
9Mr Sieb' unb entfadjt. 

2) a§ bli£t mid) jo ge^eimniftoofl. 

Unb jo berlocfenb an, 

2Ba§ lidjtlos au§ ber £iefe qnoH; 
3d) bin ber ,3aubrer bann, 

3) urtf) beffen §anb bie ^aijerin 
(Srft ftraijlenb retd) gcfd)miicft — 

2>aS 3Mnfte, I)oI)e §errjd)erin, 

2iu§ 9?uj3 itnb @taub gebriicft. 

136 


THE DIAMOND-POLISHER. 
HESE thirty years upon a wheel 



I sink the stone in lead, 

’Till finest cuts at last reveal 
The deep fire’s golden-red! 

Those flames from out the earth’s abyss 
No one can imitate; 

The flames, that beauty’s eyelids kiss, 
Are fanned by love or hate. 

Mysteriously on me, who hang 
Spell-bound, its colors shine; 

For rayless from the earth it sprang; 
The magic art is mine 

Through which the mistresses of thrones 
Are dazzlingly arrayed — 

But, noble dames, the purest stones 


Der (5eigemrtad}er. 


Si-fir traumte, baft tie ©nget 
® 3nt ©ftor berniebergefdjmebt 
3it rneine Heine SBerfftatt — 

SBor ©lucf ftab’ icft gebebt! 


@ie nobmen bie ©eigen alle 
£erab, mie SBIumen gefcfyaart, 
iBcgamten ein Sremulieren 
SSie 9XeoM)arfen jart. 

S)ann fdjmoH e8 bi8 gunt 33raufen, 
3ur Subelfftmbbonie, 

Hnb f^Iucbste $Iagen bagmiftben — 
80 meinen SD'Zenfdjert nie! 


©8 mar ber ©bpren Sandmen, 
©8 mar ber SBelten £eib; 

Hub Xdd^eXitb jpielten bie ©ngel 
2Bie $inber im 8trablen!letb. 


THE VIOLIN-MAKER. 


I DREAMED a chorus of angels 
Came down one night to me 

Within my little workshop — 

I trembled with ecstasy 1 

They took the violins to them, 

As children the flowers they find; 

They began an aeolian quaver 
As soft as the sound of the wind. 

And then to a symphony swelling, 

To a burst of joy did it grow; 

But between I heard a sobbing — 

Ah, never do men weep so! 

The spheres were singing with triumph, 
The worlds were sobbing with woe; 

The angels were laughing and playing 
Like children with raiment aglow. 


139 


140 


SOUGS OF TOIL. 


Sta foltt 3f)r mtcfj bettcn itnb legen; 

SKir luirb ber @arg nid)t fdjtoer; 

C !ann bie ©eigen ttidjt fyoren 
$on 2Fcenfd)enf)cmbeu nteljr! 



SONGS OF TOIL. 


14* 


Come, take me now to the graveyard; 

No longer the coffin I fear; 

The violin-playing of mortals 
I never again can hear! 



Stetnfcfjrteiber. 


Mflr fdgen, fdgen, fdgen I)in unb Ifer, 
©agau8, tagein, jafjrein, jafjraug, 
3n ©onnenbranb unb ©turntgebrauS, 
Unb langfam fteigt ba§ ©otteSfjauS — 
2Bir fefyen’S nintmermeljr! 

SSir fdgen, fdgen, fdgen fyer nnb I)in. 

©ie ©onne ftidft, ba§ SBaffer uifdjt, 

©er SIngen toft in ©taub erlifdjt, 

Unb unfer in ©taub bertoifdjt —■ 
$ein Sftuljm unb fein ©ettitutl 

2Bir fdgen, fdgen, fdgen intmer nod)! 

S)u lieber ©ott irn §immelbta», 

©lefyfi jeben ©tein ©u tool)! genau, 

©ie armen Sent* an ©einent ©aw, 

©ie fftiemanb adjtet bod) ? 


142 


THE STONE-CUTTER. 


■^[^E hammer, hammer, hammer on and on, 
Day-out, day-in, throughout the year, 

In blazing heat and tempests drear; 

God’s house we slowly heavenward rear — 
We’ll never see it donel 

We hammer, hammer, hammer, might and main. 
The sun torments, the rain-drops prick, 

Our eyes grow blind with dust so thick; 

Our name in dust, too, fadeth quick — 

No glory and no gain! 

We hammer, hammer, hammer ever on. 

O blessed God on Heaven’s throne, 

Dost thou take care of every stone 
And leave the toiling poor alone. 

Whom no one looks upon? 










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